Paradise Lost
by Neko-chan -Silvered Tongue
Summary: With one question posed to the Sorting Hat, Harry Potter's life changes completely.
1. Chapter 1

_Title:_ Paradise Lost

_Author:_ Neko-chan

_Fandom:_ Harry Potter

_Disclaimer:_ JKR owns the Harry Potter franchise. I am writing this story for fun and not profit, and I'm most assuredly not making any money off of it. *laughs* Though, if I had to be honest with myself, it would be rather nice to be able to claim credit for Harry Potter and Kuroshitsuji both... ;)

_Rating:_ T, eventual M

_Pairing:_ Tom Riddle (Lord Voldemort)/Harry Potter

_Summary:_ With one question posed to the Sorting Hat, Harry Potter's life changes completely.

_Author's Note:_ This is written as a present to my sister, brightsun89. She loves long stories—so this will definitely be long—and she loves the Tom Riddle and Harry Potter pairing. I also wanted to take this note to say thank you to my favorite HP authors for keeping my interest in the fandom and for writing such spectacular fanfiction: Lomonaaeren, Aya Macchiato, Mizuni-sama, Moth Gypsy, Caecelia, Epic Solemnity, and jharad17. Furthermore, I just wanted to note that I don't have access to my HP books—currently away at school—so some of the quotes that I'm taking will either be from memory or from the movies, which I _do_ have access to. Finally, the first several chapters will focus on bits and pieces of Harry's first through third years at Hogwarts, but the actual story will begin to take place in year four. Anyway, I hope that you enjoy this story (and reviews are most assuredly appreciated! :D)!

* * *

[...] and from the bottom stir  
The Hell within him; for within him Hell  
He brings, and round about him, nor from Hell  
One step, no more than from himself, can fly  
By change of place: Now conscience wakes despair,  
That slumbered; wakes the bitter memory  
Of what he was, what is, and what must be  
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue.  
[…] _Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n.  
- _John Milton; _Paradise Lost_, Book IV & Book I

_

* * *

_

**CHAPTER ONE**

The stool was rough, hard wood against Harry's bottom as he managed to pull himself up to settle upon the top. The eleven year-old boy managed to stifle a surprised flinch as McGonagall placed the Sorting Hat atop his head; he waited, hands curled nervously in his school robes, and had to silence a yelp as a voice began to murmur right next to his ear.

"Hmmm… Difficult. Very difficult… Plenty of courage, I see; not a bad mind, either… There's talent, oh yes, and a thirst to prove yourself. But where to put you…?"

"Not Slytherin. Not Slytherin," Harry whispered desperately, remembering the words that Ron had spoken to him on the train—the stories, too, that Hagrid had just begun to tell him about You-Know-Who, of Voldemort, and the evil that had led to his parents' deaths.

_There's not a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin_.

Ron's words echoed with each of Harry's requests to not be placed in Slytherin; what if he ended up evil, like Voldemort? Or like an arse of that blonde git, Malfoy? He wanted, so very much, to be accepted—to be liked—here at Hogwarts. He wanted to make friends now that he didn't have to worry about Dudley beating them off. He could not only have the chance to have a friend, but he could get a _best friend_; maybe—just maybe, if things went well—Ron would want to be that friend…?

"Not Slytherin, eh? Are you sure? You could be _great_, you know. It's all here… in your head. And _Slytherin_ will help you on the way to _greatness_, there's no doubt about that."

It was these words that finally gave Harry pause.

The Sorting Hat was saying great; _great_, not _evil_. The Hat, picking up Harry's thought, chuckled softly and waited for Harry to finally speak aloud of the bee that suddenly had begun to buzz about in his bonnet. Surprisingly timid, Harry cautiously asked, "…I've heard a lot of things about Slytherin over the past couple of days… And you want to put me there. …so what's the difference between _greatness_ and becoming evil—of _going bad_? How do you know that I'll be one and not the other?"

"Intention," the Sorting Hat said, reply simple and austere.

Harry's eyes widened suddenly at the distinction that the Hat was clearly making, that there _was_ a difference. He could be great. It was okay to want to be something more because that _didn't_ make him evil. Intention. _Intent_ was what made the difference. At that realization, that knowledge that the Sorting Hat had given him insight into, there was a stirring of some hidden part of him that hungrily, desperately wanted to rise above what he had been for the past ten years, what the Dursleys had made him into, and it was in that moment that the Sorting Hat roared out, "SLYTHERIN!"

* * *

A/N: Apologies for the short chapter. Hopefully the teaser will get people interested~ ;)


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note:_ First of all, I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who reviewed! Getting the notices for the reviews, story alerts, author alerts, adding to favorite stories (and favorite authors, wow!) completely blew me away—especially since I know that I was a bit *coughs*morethanabit*coughs* evil with how short the first chapter was. So, _thank you very much_. I'm truly grateful, and I just hope that I can continue living up to your hopes and expectations for the story! Anyway, here's chapter two, which will cover some of Harry's first year—again, in bits and pieces (with the same pattern following for year two and three). Also, on another note: Would anyone be interested in taking up the role of beta reader for me? Just to double-check over spelling, look for errors that I missed the first time around, give me detailed feedback about plot and its progress, and to prod me into making sure that I update this story weekly~ If you're interested (and know Latin, which would be a godsend), please email me and tell me a little bit about yourself and your credentials. Thank you!

* * *

**CHAPTER TWO**

"SLYTHERIN!"

From his time at the Dursleys', Harry Potter had already known that silence could truly be deafening. Lying in his small cot in the cupboard beneath the stairs, knowing that it was probably past midnight, and with the "window" of his door closed… there was silence. There was silence, too, the day that he had apparently used magic to get onto the roof of Privet Drive after running away from Dudley and his gang of bullies. The silence that followed afterwards had pressed in on his ears, and the expression on Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon's faces had reminded Harry of wax figures. The silence, though, had been particularly deafening the day when a child services inspector had come by the house, speaking to his "family" over concerns regarding Harry; he had lied, because Harry knew that that was what was expected of him, and the silence that followed when the woman had left made Harry think—only temporarily, though—that perhaps he truly had gone deaf. The crack of Uncle Vernon's belt as it snapped through the air made him quickly realize that, no, sound still had the ability to make itself be heard.

This silence, though…

This was the type of silence that came after the government woman had left.

Slipping off of the high stool, Harry kept his shoulders relaxed in an attempt to make himself seem uncaring—it also hurt less when you made sure not to tense, when you were loose enough to go with the strike—and handed the Sorting Hat back to Professor McGonagall. She seemed rather stunned at the Hat's decision, and a quick glance at the Head Table showed that many of the other professors echoed the same expression—with the Headmaster looking disappointed and… worried?... while the man in all black looked particularly gobsmacked.

With his head held high, Harry deliberately looked over at the Gryffindor table and offered Ron Weasley a hesitant but still friendly smile (to which Ron answered him by turning a sickly shade of green), and then made his way towards his new House's table.

It didn't matter how the others reacted.

Harry knew, because the Hat had told him, that it was _intention_ that mattered. And Harry would become the greatest wizard of this generation, would show everyone gathered here what it meant to _be great_, to be held in awe. And Slytherin would be the House to help him on that path. He would hold no other regrets and instead keep his gaze on the end result: great; he would be _great_.

As Harry settled onto the long bench next to Draco Malfoy, the blonde glanced over at his new dark-haired roommate and gave a small sneer—revenge, perhaps, for Harry's rejection of his hand. "Never expected you to end up in _Slytherin_, Potter. Shouldn't you have followed after the Weasel?" the boy drawled before turning his nose snootily up in the air.

The fact that this child still reminded him of Dudley hadn't changed; Malfoy was still an arse and Harry wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole. Still… he would now be Harry's dormmate for the next seven years, and it would perhaps (an understatement, really) be easier for him to achieve his end result if he changed how he dealt with the pointy ferret now instead of later.

In answer to Malfoy's upturned nose, Harry just smiled and smoothed a hand over his now green and silver tie. "Maybe you should think about how you don't really know me. At all," the Potter heir murmured in answer—to which Malfoy glanced at him with wide, surprised eyes.

Surprise, though, was a step up from disdain.

And right now, Harry was willing to take anything that he could get.

* * *

"Maybe if he had given this a squeeze, the fat lard would have remembered to land on his fat arse," Malfoy snickered as he tossed the Remembrall up in the air before putting it in his pocket. Annoyed at the blonde's openness in being petty, Harry scowled and glanced over at the other.

"Give it back, Malfoy," an annoyed Harry snapped before managing to soften his tone of voice with a Herculean effort. "Everyone's watching—you'll get in trouble if you take the Remembrall because you'll _obviously_ get caught with so many witnesses."

The Malfoy heir sneered in answer to that and finally willingly took the Remembrall from his pocket. He tossed it up in the air once more, again and then a third time, all the while a thoughtful expression slipped over his face. Finally, though, that thoughtfulness shifted to smirking complacency—and he threw it, hard, out over the Black Lake.

Watching as the Remembrall reached the peak of its arc through the air, Harry couldn't help but remember the happy look on Neville Longbottom's face as he received the gift from his grandmother. It didn't matter if the gift was rather high-handed and lacking kindness—after all, it was a type of gift that you would give to a klutz or a thoughtless person who couldn't keep things straight—but it was still a gift and a gift picked out with the best intentions: to help her grandson. The part that Harry couldn't help but focus on, however, was the fact that the Remembrall had been a _gift_ and a _gift_ from a _relative_.

Harry had once received a gift from his relatives: an entire year of housework, of gardening, of doing Dudley's homework correctly and then his own wrong so that Dudley would look so much better than himself in everyone else's eyes… he had slaved away for an entire year, and the present that he had been promised had turned out to be a hole-ridden, muddy left shoe and a piece of twine.

Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, Harry grabbed the school's Cleansweep broom that he had been using for the flying class and running quickly towards the shore of the lake. "UP!" he yelled out, voice authoritative, and rose up immediately right before he would have been splashing through the water. The broom and its rider moved through the air effortlessly, Harry's robes snapping out and making him look so much like a gyre falcon intent upon its prey as he barrel-rolled through the air and caught the small glass ball upside down.

He had managed to catch it in time. He had caught Longbottom's gift.

"_POTTER!_" a voice bellowed from the edge of the lake and, looking over his shoulder, Harry saw the furious expression on Madam Hooch's face. Wincing at the realization that he was now going to be kicked out of Hogwarts—and truly, over such a stupid little reason; he should have just let the Remembrall fall and break—Harry began to fly back to shore, obviously shamefaced. As he landed, though, Madam Hooch wasn't yet done with him: taking him by the ear, she began to berate him as she headed back into the castle. "What the _bloody hell_ do you think you were doing? You could have ended up like Longbottom with a broken wrist—or worse, you could have _died_! Rules are not put up to be broken, Mr. Potter, and your blatant disregard of my very clearly stated order is absolutely _disgusting_…"

Not saying a word as Madam Hooch continued on in this train, Harry managed to silently hand the Remembrall to the bushy-haired girl that he remembered briefly meeting on the train. She was from Gryffindor; she would have ensured that Longbottom would get it back—so that, at least, his rule breaking wouldn't have been completely to waste.

Once they got down into the dungeons, however, Harry began to hope.

While it was no secret that Professor Snape, Potions Master extraordinaire and his current Head of House, hated his guts (and no one could determine the reason _why_, which made Harry more baffled than ever since Slytherins _always_ had a reason "why"), it was also no secret that Professor Snape was also a voracious Quidditch fan—and hated the fact that Professor McGonagall typically got the best players in her own House. As Madam Hooch continued to rant to Professor Snape about Harry's disobedience, Harry cleared his throat and put on his most contrite mask.

"…excuse me?" he whispered, voice timid but still loud enough to cut into Madam Hooch's litany; she blinked in surprise and both she and Professor Snape turned their attention to the young Potter. "I realize that what I did was wrong, and I do apologize for breaking the rules. But I did it to keep a fellow student's property from being harmed, so… couldn't there be an alternate punishment instead? Like taking a bunch of House points and forcing me to earn them back?"

Having an inkling as to where this was going, Madam Hooch quirked an eyebrow and leaned a hip against Professor Snape's desk. "And how do you purpose to earn back those points, Mr. Potter?"

At this, Harry looked straight at his Head of House. "Make me the Seeker for Slytherin," he said simply. "And I'll win the games that I play in, earning back the points that you would have taken from me for what I did."

Professor Snape glanced at his colleague, raising an eyebrow in inquiry though otherwise remained silent. To the question posed through his body language, Madam Hooch sighed and nodded. "Yes, he's good enough—more than good enough—to make Seeker. And win, Severus."

When Harry saw Professor Snape's gaze go shrewd and dark, he knew that he had won: not only would he _not_ get expelled, he'd also get more chances to fly! And, with any luck, if he managed to win the Quidditch Cup, Professor Snape would hopefully let up on his obvious bullying of Harry. If that happened… well, everything would be a win-win scenario.

Once his Housemates forgave him the loss of the points.

(Harry anticipated a rather uncomfortable several weeks that he would have to be dealing with—at least, until Quidditch season actually began. Until then… all he truly needed to do was survive. Which, considering the fact that he was dealing with Slytherins, the black-haired boy knew was easier said than done.)

"Oh, and Potter?" Professor Snape murmured. Glancing up, Harry couldn't help but swallow nervously at the malicious smugness that danced about in his Head's eyes. "This will be a secret between just the three of us and the Quidditch team."

The rest of the House wouldn't know that Harry would have a way to make up the lost points. Essentially, with those words, Professor Snape had doomed the boy to fend for himself in a den of snakes. Without any protection.

Harry knew he was a dead man.

* * *

Surprisingly, it was the bushy-haired girl—Hermione Granger—who first approached him after the loss of the points. Harry had decided to hide away in the library for as long as possible, doing his homework and his now-required extra credit: not because any of the teachers had assigned it to him, but for his own self-preservation. The students in Slytherin _all_ knew _a lot_ of Dark Arts spells, and Harry was just barely managing to keep himself, his property, and his homework from getting cursed.

So studying it was.

…but that was all right, if Harry had to admit that to no one except himself. He was learning a variety of different spells; the Light ones were oftentimes tame and rarely did any good against his Housemates' curses, jinxes, and hexes, but the _Dark_ ones… they were rather interesting. Fun to cast, too.

Luckily, he had been allowed into the Restricted Section—and by none other than Professor Snape! When the dark-eyed man had asked as to the reason why he should allow Harry into that particular section, Harry had tilted his head to the side and instead asked, "Professor, when you attended Hogwarts, were you sorted into Slytherin?"

"Of course," the man answered, a sneer in his voice.

"So you'd then be aware of the spells that they'd know—and use—should anyone… displease… them," Harry replied with a straight face, hoping that Professor Snape would agree to his request—or Harry was bloody well going to _die_ before he even got the chance to play in his first game and win back his House's points!

The only retort that Professor Snape could find himself giving in answer to _that_ particular point was a noncommittal "Hn." and a mean little smirk. But he had signed Harry's permission form, and the boy was happily taking advantage of the access that he now had to the section that had piqued his curiosity the moment he had first stepped into the library.

It was during one of his journeys through the various aisles that Hermione Granger joined him, several books already held possessively in his arms. "Umm…" she began, voice uncertain—but still showing the Gryffindor courage in that she did continue to approach him. "I know that you haven't really been approached by anyone, but I wanted to tell you that what you did for Neville _was_ very foolish. But it was _also_ very brave and kind of you, too. So thank you."

Harry blushed slightly at that, shrugging a shoulder before glancing off to avoid looking her in the eyes so that Granger couldn't see just how truly uncomfortable her thanks made him. "It wasn't a big deal. I'm just glad that I didn't get expelled."

The girl grimaced in sympathy at that. "True, but you ended up losing your house two hundred points, right? They can't be happy about that."

In answer to that, Harry just chuckled and brought up one of his books to Granger's eyelevel so that she might see just what it was that he was reading: _A Beginner's Introduction to Wards and Other Protective Spells_, by Layla Longnose, as well as _An Introduction to the Dark Side of Gray_, by Amberrose Sommersot. Seeing the title, Granger's eyes widened comically and her mouth dropped open into an "o" of surprise.

"…I suppose that saying that they aren't happy about it would be an understatement, then," the girl added on, voice rather meek.

"That would be right, yeah," Harry answered in reply, giving a bemused smile and shake of his head. He paused for a moment, glancing at the girl and looking her over; she was in the library as often as he was, was always answering questions in class with additional information that was completely unnecessary—an ironic tilt of a head to the man that she was probably descended from and the verb that came about from his works: grangerize; adding to a book with information or illustrations not originally included—those same things oftentimes _unnecessary_. Just like how Granger always added in information that really was unnecessary for first year courses. Still, though, it could be useful for Harry at this particular moment…

Offering a small, reserved smile, Harry finally asked, "Would you like to help me look up spells?"

Granger's—Hermione's—eyes alit at that and she nodded enthusiastically. "Oh, yes! That would be absolutely lovely, Harry!" With a happy smile at finally being given a chance to make a friend, Hermione began to gush about some of the books that she had been reading, all while she and Harry meandered up and down the aisles, picking up any and all books that looked like they would pertain to Harry's current plight.

* * *

The first time that Harry used a Dark Arts spell—minor though it was—he was filled with a sense of elation, of euphoria that made his limbs tremble in reaction to the _rightness_ that surged through him.

And the look on his Housemates' faces was absolutely priceless.

"_Malus Sententia!_" Harry snapped out, his wand flicking out from where he usually kept it hidden in his sleeve. He had seen the sixth year raising his wand at him from the corner of his eyes and—thankfully—Harry had managed to be just a bit quicker.

The other boy's eyes widened before he whimpered softly, falling down to his knees and clutching at his head. "No…" he moaned out before his eyes screwed shut and his body began to shudder with malicious thoughts that were now directed at him—caught in nightmares, _bad thoughts_, that Harry had come up with for the past several weeks as the bullying continued on.

"…that was Dark Arts," Malfoy finally managed to comment, voice subdued as he and the others continued to watch the trembling sixth year moan out in fear as the nightmares continued on, Harry not releasing the older boy from the curse—and having no intention of doing so for several more minutes, if only to teach the others not to try to curse him when his back was turned.

"Not by much," came Harry's blasé answer. He finally let up on the curse, cancelling it with quietly, barely heard words—not wanting the others to know the counter for it—and then began to head down a corridor to his dorm room.

Staring after him, the blonde first year recalled the words that the Potter heir had spoken to him at the Welcoming Feast: _Maybe you should think about how you don't really know me. At all. _Perhaps, Malfoy mused as he watched the dark-haired boy duck into their bedroom, it was time to learn just who this Boy-Who-Lived truly was. After all, Potter's use of Dark Arts had been… unexpected.

What other secrets did he hide?


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

Harry lay upon his bed back in his dorm room, legs crossed at the ankles and hands cupping the back of his head as he stared up at his bed's canopy. He was—presently, anyway—alone in the room, and Harry took the time to mull over his reaction to the first Dark Arts spell that he had ever cast.

It was, as he had told the others, a relatively minor one, and yet…

The rush of _power_ that had surged through him as he had spoken the curse's words: for the first time in his eleven years, Harry felt like he was in _control_. The sixth year had been about to hurt him, but Harry had _stopped him_. Back at the Durselys' house, Harry had never been able to stop Uncle Vernon and Dudley when they were about to strike him. Now, though… He had protected himself. And he had managed to do it _easily_.

Harry's fingers trembled slightly, and he reached into the sleeve of his robe to wrap the slim digits tight around the holly wand. Magic had been able to stop a tormentor from harming him. The spell that Harry had used made sure that the sixth year knew what it was like to be bullied in return—and with the focus that Harry had put behind _Malus Sententia_, the boy was fully aware that the other would never raise his wand to Harry ever again.

"I love magic," Harry whispered, grip tightening further on his wand.

* * *

The day of the first Quidditch match dawned, and clear skies greeted those who glanced up at the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall; it was a perfect day for flying, a perfect day for Quidditch.

Tension filled the air as all of the four Houses settled down for breakfast, with Gryffindor being as loud and boisterous as ever: loudly proclaiming that their House would easily win the Quidditch Cup—after all, the Slytherin team would probably have to be using one of their reserve players to fill in the otherwise empty Seeker position—and how this game was already in the bag.

Harry ignored the other team's smug crowing, instead focusing on his breakfast. He wasn't very hungry—never was in the mornings, usually opting to eat some toast and down a mug of coffee—but today he would need his strength and, thus, Harry forced himself to eat something much more substantial. The breakfast, however, was briefly interrupted when Hermione came in, glaring in annoyance at her overly loud table, and darted up to the Slytherin table to give Harry a quick hug.

"Good luck today!" she whispered, Hermione being the only one who knew about Harry's position as Seeker. He had admitted it several weeks before when Hermione became curious and asked how he intended to win back points for his House—since, after all, Harry had become much more reserved in classes since the petty curses and pranks had begun. He never bothered to answer questions anymore, instead being willing to work on his spell practice with whoever he had been partnered with that day—more and more often Hermione once the professors had realized that there was a budding friendship between the two (which surprised most of them, but then all opted to look on it in approval since it meant that the Boy-Who-Lived was finally making connections back to the House of his parents)—and otherwise keeping to himself.

"Thanks, Hermione," Harry murmured in answer, giving her a quick squeeze in return. He was still quite uncomfortable with touching since most of the touches that he had received at the hands of the Dursleys were not, in any way, "positive." But Hermione was a sweet girl, exceptionally bookish, and Harry could already tell that the girl was extremely attached to him already. And though they came from different Houses, he _did_ get on well with her… With Ronald Weasely very deliberately ignoring him and the chance for that particular friendship flown out the window, who was to say that Harry couldn't have a different "best friend"? And, in that case, why couldn't it be a girl?

_Someone_ was better than _no one_, and…. Well. Hermione wasn't too bad. A bit bossy and quick to prove that she knew everything, but Harry was beginning to realize that, in a way, they were similar. He read voraciously to gain as much knowledge as possible—for the immediate scenario, to keep himself safe and protected from his House mates—and Hermione read as much as she did to prove to herself and others that it didn't matter if she was Muggleborn: she still deserved to attend Hogwarts. She still deserved to be known as a witch. Coming across _that_ epiphany had been startling for Harry, and he… understood.

The boy's musings were broken by the arrival of the morning post, however, and it came as a surprise when several owls, all carrying a rather large package, swooped down before him, delivering the item.

"Wha…" Harry began, confused.

It was blatantly obvious as to what the package was. Whoever had sent it hadn't bothered to do a very good job of hiding the shape, and the form of a broom was rather distinctive. But who would be sending Harry a broom…? Who, other than Professor Snape and the other Slytherin team members, knew that Harry was the newest Quidditch player?

Frowning, Harry reached out and snagged the letter that had accompanied the package, pointedly ignoring his Housemate's curious murmurs so that he could instead read the note. What he found there was enough to make him snort softly and quirk an eyebrow in derision.

_My dear boy,_

_Severus has told me that you don't have a proper broom, and I thought that it would be a shame if the youngest Seeker in a century hadn't been properly outfitted for his first game. Your father was an excellent Quidditch player during his time here at Hogwarts, and I'm sure that you'll do his memory proud. I know that James would have treasured this moment and would have loved to be able to give you your first broom; in his stead, I hope that you allow me to do the honor._

_As a side note, Harry, please do not open the package here in the Great Hall. I can't be accused of playing favorites, now can I?_

_Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore  
Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Grand Sorc., D. Wiz.,__X.J.(sorc.),__S. of Mag.Q.,__Order of Merlin__ - First Class__  
Supreme Mugwump__ of the __International Confederation of Wizards  
Chief Warlock__ of the __Wizengamot_

The list of titles seemed a bit—more than a bit—overkill for something that was supposed to be a friendly note, and Harry glanced up to meet the twinkling gaze of the Headmaster. The old man winked conspiratorially at the boy, holding a finger up to his mouth in a gesture of secrecy—as if they had both shared some humorous joke that the rest of the school would never get.

What was frustrating about all of this was that it _wasn't_ a secret: it was _obvious_ as to what the package contained. And, unfortunately, Harry was already being given bitter, jealous, angry stares from his year mates. Grimacing slightly, Harry tucked the packaged broom beneath the table in an attempt to try the whole "out of sight and out of mind" theory, and then tried to return to his meal.

Body language easy, almost blasé in how much he didn't care, the dark-haired boy reached for a slice of toast and the bowl of jam; despite his cool attitude, however, Harry's inner thoughts were in turmoil. He didn't trust gifts from adults—his time at the Dursleys had taught him to rue the day when an adult actually gave him attention, offered him presents or some sort of prizes—and Harry couldn't help but wonder what, exactly, the Headmaster had planned with this… gift. Never trust adults; they always, _always_ had a hidden agenda.

Idly, the boy wondered if the broom was actually cursed.

* * *

Later on that same day, Harry rued that specific thought, yelling out words that would have normally had points deducted from Slytherin as he tried desperately to keep hold on his broom. It bucked between his legs, moving every which way, and it was obvious that it—or someone who was controlling it—wanted him off, falling through the air, and preferably _dead _on the ground. In a pique of spite, Harry was tempted to give whoever was cursing his broom the gesture that Uncle Vernon usually gave to bad drivers (the same one that always had Aunt Petunia gasping at his coarseness in front of naïve, sweet Dudders), but opted instead to hold on for dear life.

_If I ever find out who is doing this_, Harry snarled to himself (with the hope that he'd be alive in order to make good on this threat), _I'm going to have their eyeballs rolling into their skull and their toenails growing in and not out_. Luckily, he already knew the curses for both promises—found, of course, in one of the Restricted Section's books.

Momentarily distracted by promises of dire restitution, Harry's grip faltered for just a second and the boy went arse over teakettle over the front of his Nimbus 2000. He yelled out in shock as he flew through the air—sans broom—and immediately felt himself the victim of gravity.

With the tendency of how these things tended to happen: In a huge cosmic joke, as well, it was as Harry was falling that he felt the small, cool metal of the Golden Snitch smack firmly against the palm of his hand. Instinctively, Harry's fingers curled tight around the Snitch because if he was going to die, he was bloody well going to _win_ the damn game at the same time, too.

As he fell, time seemed to slow for Harry and in that second or two that stretched out into what felt like an eternity, the boy couldn't help but wonder why the staff members weren't doing anything to possibly save him. Did they all dislike him that much? Including his own Head of House?

Well, _fuck that_.

Not ten feet above the ground, Harry gritted his teeth and yelled out, "STOP!" A huge surge of magic boiled up from within him, and light formed into a bubble around him: green, the light was, with purple and black threaded through it in pulsing veins that almost seemed to mimic the arteries within a person's body. Harry's momentum ceased, and the Slytherin Seeker froze midair. He hovered, defying gravity, and then the bubble that encased him slowly began to drift downwards until he landed him safely upon the ground. With the entire school—staff, students, and visiting parents—watching on in wide-eyed surprise and shock, the bubble burst with a soft "pop!" and left Harry sprawled out on his back, blinking up at the sky.

In a move that was rather anticlimactic, Harry held up his arm, the fingers of his hand opening slightly so that his current audience could see the Snitch that he held.

"Harry Potter… has caught the Snitch?" Lee Jordan's uncertain voice sounded out, his commentary echoing through the large Quidditch stadium. The boy cleared his throat, though confusion at what had just transpired still bled through the tone of his voice. "…Slytherin wins?"

Immediately, one quarter of the stands erupted into exuberant yells, catcalls, and cheers for their victory—knowing that they had not only defeated Gryffindor in the first game of the season, but that they were now a step closer to winning the Quidditch Cup. Oh, and Harry had finally won back the points that he had lost with his stunt during Madam Hooch's class.

"Bunch of hypocrites," Harry muttered to himself as he finally began to push himself upright in preparation in being swarmed by his new and adoring fanbase.

Before anyone else could join him, however, Harry soon found that he had an armful of sobbing, frantic Gryffindor. "Oh, Harry! I was so terrified for you! I thought that you were going to die, and I tried to say as many spells as I could think of that would help, but they all just bounced off of you like there was something keeping them from helping you, and when I realized that…" Breaking out into tears, Hermione just hugged Harry tighter. "Oh, oh, Harry! I'm _so_ glad that you're all right!"

Perhaps, Harry thought as he rubbed soothing circles over the small of Hermione's back in an attempt to calm the girl, it would be all right to trust one person. Even if it was just a little bit, but a little bit was a start—especially at the realization that there was at least one person, this girl, who truly cared for him.

Carefully, Harry began to hug Hermione back.

* * *

"Harry, my dear boy…" Albus Dumbledore began as he wandered deeper into the library, settling himself in a chair across from the green-eyed first year. Catching sight of some of the titles of the books that sprawled out before Harry Potter, the Headmaster's eyebrows shot up in surprise—_Who had already given the boy access to the Restricted Section?_, the old man thought worriedly—before frowning slightly in concern. Harry took note of the frown, but only closed the book that he had been reading, placing it aside so that he might give the Headmaster his full attention. Deciding to place his newfound concerns aside for now, Albus Dumbledore gave Harry a genial smile and inclined his head slightly. "First of all, I had wanted to come over to congratulate you on a well-played game," the man began, a twinkle once more appearing in his gaze. "And secondly, I wanted to come over to ask about that neat demonstration of wandless magic that you performed out on the pitch."

"It wasn't anything special," Harry hedged politically, averting his gaze slightly so that the old man might think that Harry was still looking him in the eyes when the boy was actually looking slightly to Dumbledore's right.

"On the contrary," the elderly Headmaster corrected, voice still friendly in an attempt to be approachable. "Not very many first years would have been capable of it. In fact, in all of my years as a professor, I've only come across one another student who would have been capable of something similar." Harry remained silent at that, and Dumbledore sighed quietly. "…tell me, my dear boy, why have you already begun foraging about in the Restricted Section?"

Surprised by the question, Harry's gaze flickered over to meet Dumbledore's, long lashes blinking and minutely obscuring his gaze. "Why wouldn't I?" he eventually began after a long moment of silence. "There's so much to learn in each area of the library. So why wouldn't I have taken advantage of reading books from the Restricted Section when I'm also reading so many other things from the other sections, too?"

"Ah, but the other sections don't have books on the Dark Arts—the few that Hogwarts has, anyway," Dumbledore chided quietly, the blue of his eyes deepening to sapphire in his concern and worry over the young first year.

"Light or Dark, what does it matter?" Harry asked with a bemused quirk of his mouth. "Magic is magic. It's the intent behind the magic that makes the difference. I mean… the more that I've been here at Hogwarts, the more that I've realized that the Dark Arts has gained a bad reputation." Here, Dumbledore nodded encouragingly, though his brows furrowed as he saw where this train of thought was leading. "But why is that?" Harry asked, gesturing to the books on the table before him. "But you can cause just as much damage with a Light spell as you can with a Dark one."

"Oh?" Dumbledore began, concern growing as he questioned the boy further. "And what of the Dark Arts spells that truly have no other purpose than to harm? Blood magic, for example."

At that, Harry gave his Headmaster a flat look. "A lot of blood magic, from what I've learned, has to deal with sacrifice. My mum sacrificed herself for me—and it was a _sacrifice_, Headmaster, because Voldemort gave her the chance to step away. So her sacrifice saved me: a life for a life, from what I've read. Isn't that typical of blood magic rituals? But my mum has always been called a hero for what she did. So, see? It's all about intent. About perspective, too."

Troubled, Dumbledore murmured, "I can see that you've been thinking about this a lot, Harry."

"Not really," the boy answered, shrugging nonchalantly. "I mean… the more that I learn here at school, the more obvious it seems. You know?"

"Ah," came the thoughtful murmur, and the elderly man pushed himself up from his seat so that he could head out of the library and back towards the stairs that led up to his office. He had much, much to consider—and wonder, too, if history wasn't once more repeating itself. "Perhaps you do have a point. I'll leave you to your studying now, though. Pip, pip!"

Once he was alone again, Harry reached out and splayed his fingers over one of the books that he had been reading, stroking over the cover in a possessive, almost loving caress. True, what he had said to Dumbledore he really did think—about intent and how it really was all a matter of perspective—but there was still something about the spells that were labeled as Dark Arts that appealed to him more. It was a Siren's call, and Harry found himself lacking in the desire to resist.

* * *

He dreamt that night, dreamed of dark mist that trailed slowly over black earth, twining through the trunks of trees that clustered closely together, huddled against the sharp chill in the air. He dreamed, too, that he was floating—as insubstantial as the mist that surrounded him. He dreamed of the howl of a lone wolf, its silhouette stark against the rising full moon.

He dreamed of a ruby gaze, pupils slitted like those of a cat—like those of a snake. He dreamed of laughter that was husky, rich like dark chocolate. He dreamed of green light, a woman's scream, a surge of power similar to when he had cast his first curse—but _more_. So much, much more. He dreamed of the solid weight of a hand upon his shoulder, dreamed of the brush of lips against his ear as the man whispered to him, dreamed of secrets that he never thought that he would get to hear, get to learn. He dreamed of the night. He dreamed of the Dark.

He dreamed.

Oh, how he dreamed.

_Harry…_

_

* * *

_

"Harry, my boy, would you be interested in hearing a story?" Albus Dumbledore asked one morning just at the start of the winter holidays. Harry glanced up from his morning porridge and mug of coffee, looking in bemusement at the headmaster's attempt to play the doddering, congenial old grandfather.

He was curious to see what the Headmaster was up to and, thus, the boy slightly inclined his head in agreement. It would have been an understatement, as well, to say that Harry was immediately on his guard: that he would take whatever it was that Dumbledore was about to say to him with a grain of salt.

"Have you heard, dear boy, the story of the Philosopher's Stone?" Dumbledore asked, the twinkle so bright in his eyes that Harry was, frankly, surprised that the older man hadn't managed to blind himself.

After a moment and a realization that the other expected him to answer, the raven-haired boy shrugged absently. "Isn't it supposed to be some super-powerful alchemist tool? Turns lead into gold?"

"It does do that, yes," Dumbledore said in answer, smile broad as he reached across the table to rest his hand upon Harry's left forearm. "But there's so much to it, as well. With it, one can brew the Elixir of Life—a substance so powerful that it can, in a way, make a person _immortal_."

Harry snorted at that and tugged his arm out from beneath his Headmaster's hold. "There's no such thing as true immortality," he answered with the all-knowing wisdom of an eleven year-old. "There's always some catch, some way to defeat that promise. Right? I mean, that's always how it is in the books and I figure that it's the same way in real life, too." Dumbledore visibly deflated at this, and Harry had to try hard to hide a triumphant smirk. "Anyway, why are you telling me this, Headmaster?"

"Ah, let's just say that—for a little while longer—the _why_ will remain a secret. I'm sure that you'll find out the reason soon enough, though," Dumbledore said and winked playfully at the dark-haired Slytherin. He stood then and began to make his way to the staff table, greeting students here and there.

Harry watched the Headmaster for a little bit longer before sighing to himself and allowing his gaze to drop back down to his breakfast. He _knew_, knew _absolutely_, that the grandfatherly act was just that—an act—because it had so often been repeated back at the Dursleys'. Countless times, Harry had been dressed up in his only fine set of Sunday clothes, paraded out before visitors so that they could look at him from over their upturned noses and praise his aunt and uncle for being so kind, so charitable. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon would smile at that, expressions conciliatory, and soak up the praises over how they were such _good people_. They were anything but, and the kind act got rather old rather fast.

Dumbledore's act was still just an act, and the Slytherin had learned never to trust anything that an adult said at face value. There was a reason for "storytime," and Harry was still debating whether or not it was worth his time to find out more.

A moment's decision…

And no, Harry decided that it really _wasn't_ worth his time or effort to investigate.

Chuckling, the boy returned to his food.

* * *

_I wissssh for you to sssssteal it for me, Quirinussss…. I __**need**__ it. I need it. Destroy the obsssstaclessssss if you have to, __**but bring it to me**__! Ssssssoon…_

Harry paused in his exploration of the third floor corridor—tempting fate by being _near _the Forbidden Corridor but not actually being _in_ it—and tilted his head to the side as he considered the voice that was snarling malevolently in the otherwise empty hallway. It was rather hiss-y, the words that had an "s" always drawn out—like the whispering murmur of a snake, almost. In a way, the overly exaggerated speech pattern was almost comical. And yet…

And yet, Harry couldn't stop the slight shudder that wracked his slight frame.

Silently, making sure that there was no way that the pair could hear him, Harry began to slowly retreat—only pausing briefly when he heard a low chuckle, a chuckle that was so incredibly _familiar_… But Harry had grown up with self-preservation in mind, with survival as the end goal, and this situation reeked of too much danger.

He wouldn't chance it.

* * *

Harry stared at the old, tarnished mirror with his head tilted to the side. He had stumbled across it by accident—or, thinking again of the circumstances that had brought him here, perhaps not so accidentally. There was an inscription upon the mirror, _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi_., and its name was apparently _The Mirror of Erised_.

Harry stared at the mirror for several long moments before jumping, slightly, at the soft, breathy voice of Headmaster Dumbledore; the man had been sitting in a chair in a corner of the room and the boy hadn't seen him when he had first come in. Scowling at being taken off guard, Harry turned on his heel and gave his full attention to the Headmaster.

"This is the Mirror of Erised; it shows the deepest and most desperate desire of our hearts, Harry," Dumbledore informed the boy, smile soft and affectionate as he looked over at the child. "However, it should also be treated with caution. Men have wasted away before it, not knowing if what they have seen is real, or even possible."

The eleven year-old looked at Dumbledore for several more moments before silently turning his attention back to the mirror; once again glancing up at the inscription, his brows furrowed as he slowly pieced together what the inscription actually said: "I show not your face but your heart's desire."

"Precisely, my dear boy," Dumbledore murmured as a pleased smiled tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Glancing one more time at the mirror, Harry's furrowed brows deepened and he turned to leave the room. Surprised at the lack of curiosity, Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up until they nearly reached his hairline. "Do you not wonder what it is that you might see?" the Headmaster asked, all while concerned that his plans were slowly falling to naught.

"What's the point?" Harry answered as he left the room, reply cynically pragmatic. "It's not real. It's something that you want, but there's no guarantee that you'll get it. So, Headmaster, I'd rather not know at all."

Dumbledore watched Harry leave, hands clasped carefully over his stomach as he mused silently to himself. This child was nothing at all like Lily or James; how was it that dear Harry had turned out so different from his parents? The apple couldn't have fallen _that_ far from the tree…

And yet…

And yet.

"Dear child, you'll never know just how much your very existence concerns me," the old man murmured aloud to himself before pushing himself up from the chair to follow Harry back out of the room. More and more often lately, Dumbledore was so incredibly afraid that history was truly coming full circle and about to repeat itself.

* * *

"Oh, but Harry!" Hermione murmured as she worriedly wrung his hands together. She bit her lip when Harry seemed to ignore her, but immediately stopped the distraught gesture when the raven-haired yearmate glanced up and quirked an eyebrow at her. "Someone is going to steal the Stone, I just _know_ it! You know as well as I that the events this year have been leading up to it!"

Harry snorted at that, not bothering to hide his derision. "So what?"

Hermione's jaw dropped, and the young girl flopped down into the library chair across from her best friend. "So what?" she repeated, voice horrified by the fact that Harry didn't seem to care at all. "Harry, it's the _Philosopher's Stone_! We can't just let someone come into Hogwarts and _steal_ it! It's too dangerous in the wrong hands!"

The boy gave a small smirk to that, though, and tilted his head to the side as he glanced up at his first and only friend. Hermione had always had a weakness for logic, and Harry knew that he would probably be the winner in this particular contest of wills. "This is true, but why do _we_ have to be the ones to stop whoever it is that's come to steal it?" Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but Harry continued before the girl had an actual chance to say a word: "First of all, it was the Headmaster who decided to bring the Stone into the castle. Therefore, it's his responsibility to protect. Second of all, we know that Fluffy is just the first of several obstacles that we'd have to fight our way through in order to get to the Stone. We're only first years, Hermione, and the traps were set by the professors. With the small amount of knowledge that we've learned this year, do you really think that we'd stand a chance and actually be able to _get_ to the Stone first?"

Hermione frowned at that, fidgeting in her chair as Harry began to lay out point after point as to why they should just leave the responsibility up to the professors.

"But, Harry…" the Gryffindor girl whispered, fingers curling in the school robes that pooled over her lap. "What if someone takes the Stone to do something horrible with it?"

To that, Harry just gave his friend a small smile. "Even if they manage to get _to_ the Stone, they'd then have to get _out_ of the school. Do you honestly think that the Headmaster—or Professors McGonagall or Snape—would honestly let that happen?"

"Well…" Hermione hedged, and Harry could see that she was finally relenting.

"It'll be all right," Harry said, consoling the girl and reaching out to wrap an arm around her shoulders. "You'll see."

* * *

Quirinus Quirrell ran down the staircase that led up to the third floor corridor, accidentally barreling into someone along the way. He snarled in anger, not even bothering to look down to see who it was that he had run into, and was immediately up and fleeing down the staircase as fast as he could run.

Before he could reach the doors, however, Professor Snape stepped out from his patrol of the halls; leveling his wand at the obviously guilty wizard, the dark man roared out, "_Stupefy!_"

And, not even putting up even a pathetic attempt at a fight, Quirrell fell down upon the stones of the Entrance Hall, immediately knocked unconscious. His purple turban went flying, revealing the grotesque face of the parasitic spirit that had latched onto the professor for the past year and a half.

The spirit screamed its fury, surging up from the back of his host's head. Professor Snape cried out in recognition and ducked, bringing his arm up to cover his head as the spirit misted into a vague form with serpentine features, and then exploded into a shower of dark green sparks.

At the top of the stairs, Harry Potter smiled and carefully pocketed the Philosopher's Stone, making his way down the corridor so that he could put himself someplace innocent—thus gaining an alibi and not a scrap of suspicion directed towards him. Still, however, Harry didn't bother smothering a soft, barely audible laugh as he slipped down a secret passageway and headed towards the library.

Professor Quirrell hadn't been _at all_ subtle.

**- End Year 1 -**


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note:_ For those who have taken the time out of their day to leave me reviews, I would just like to once again say thank you so incredibly much for leaving me your feedback! :) I truly do appreciate it, and I always will feel grateful for your thoughts. *gives cookies for those who have reviewed* Also, apologies if years one through three are going a bit too fast for people's tastes. As I mentioned in the first chapter, the actual story takes place in year four. The reason why I'm backtracking a little bit is to give you all some situations and interactions so that you guys can kind of get a feel for how Harry has changed, though I do realize that there has to be a fair amount of connect-the-dots, as well. So please bare with me? :) I promise that things will be much slower once the summer before fourth year hits~

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Midnight approached, creeping along Privet Drive like the ghost of a breath, exhaled softly and soon dissipated in the ebon-tint of the night. It lingered longest at Number Four, curling through the hedges at the front of the house, dipping to trail along the ground just beneath the bobbing heads of the summertime flowers that one raven-haired boy had planted years before.

_Whissssspering_, softly, to the occupants of the home, teasing quietly in such a way that only the witching hour truly ever did: the quiet murmurs of the Dark that caused one sleeping body to stir slightly in reaction, fingers uncurling to reach out across the threadbare cotton of his pillow.

Whispering…

_Whisssssspering…_

Harry shivered as a quiet sound slipped past sleep-parted lips—giving in, without a struggle, to the Siren's call as he sunk deeper into his shadow flavored slumber. He dreamed, not of thick primordial forests with lush canopies—forests not touched by human hand in centuries—but of a burning, _burning_ gaze that caught his own. Tempered, it seemed, with the embers of hellfire, a twisted joy filled those blood-red eyes as it _saw_ the results of the Gray-flavored and, most importantly, the Dark Arts spells that the boy had been practicing throughout the year. Light and clear and what so many would label as _clean_, that magical core once was, but the shine of obsidian was slowly creeping in from the edges.

The boy had so much potential, so much power—and he was realizing that himself, was beginning to stretch his wings and explore into what others would consider "forbidden territory," _evil_ territory. But the boy… oh, _this_ boy… So much potential, so much power, so much promise: and he was utilizing it all. Thissss boy…

_Haaaarry…_

Harry Potter's lashes lifted, awoken from his dream, and stared up at the Dark silhouette that hovered over his bed. He stilled, for just a moment as Killing Curse-green eyes widened briefly, and then a slow smile curled about his lips.

"Welcome," the boy murmured, his voice breaking the silence of the night.

* * *

Harry stared moodily out of his window, glaring off-handedly at the bars that pressed near the glass; it would have been such a simple thing as to banish them away, but he couldn't. Not when magic was _forbidden_ to underage wizards during the holidays. Angrily, the twelve year-old slammed his hand against the wood of the sill.

"POTTER!" bellowed the man from downstairs before Harry began to hear Uncle Vernon's heavy tread upon the staircase. Grimacing, the boy moved away from the window and settled at the edge of his bed, staring and waiting for his uncle's appearance at the door.

It took a while, though, since Uncle Vernon had to undo so many locks before the door would finally open for his massive bulk. Silently, Harry sat and waited more as Uncle Vernon made his way into the room, immediately cuffing the quiet boy upside the head. "We've told you before not to make any noise! You're disturbing Petunia and Dudders both, and _I won't stand for it_!"

"I'm very sorry, Uncle Vernon," Harry whispered softly as he stared down at his feet; he wouldn't raise his head to meet the Dursley's gaze: Vernon would go on thinking that it was because Harry was effectively cowed. But Harry didn't want his uncle to see just how much he resented the older man, just how angry this… _prison_… made him. Fed through a cat-flap, only allowed to shower once a week, and denied food at his captors' every whim. Days ago Harry had managed to begin counting his ribs.

He hated putting up with this. He hated that he was forced to go back to Privet Drive every summer. He hated the restraints put upon him, the names that his relatives called him—the refusal of the basic human requirements necessary to _live_. It wasn't fair and, if nothing else, Harry would find a way this coming year to keep himself from having to come back here!

Surely the wizarding world would be aghast at learning that their Boy Savior was left to fend for himself against the abuse of _Muggles_ each and every holiday, defenseless and left at another's "tender" mercy.

And a thought occurred to Harry just then.

…but.

But it required him leaving this prison sooner rather than later.

A smile still stirred at the corners of Harry's mouth, however, as Uncle Vernon thundered his way back out of the smallest bedroom of Number Four while making more noise than Harry was ever possible of making. A plan was beginning to form, and it was a Slytherin plan: one that would ensure his survival and one that, with any luck, would guarantee that he'd never have to come back to this hellhole that riddled itself with angry, violent memories.

This was no home, and Harry would rather make it elsewhere. But first… But first, Harry had to find himself several champions who would forward his cause. And he knew of just the two who would be perfect for the job.

The wizarding world wouldn't know what hit 'em.

* * *

"_Albus_, would you care to explain several things to me?" one Severus Snape hissed threateningly as he made his way through the doors of the Headmaster's office to stop before his old mentor's desk. Dark eyes alit with fury, and Dumbledore leaned back into his chair in surprise at just how _hot_ that fury burned.

"My boy…?" the elderly wizard began, voice cautious as he tried to figure out what he must have done to infuriate Professor Snape in such a way—the man was practically radiating waves of white-edged anger. And it was directed straight at the Headmaster.

"No. No 'my boy' endearments, Albus. Not after what I found at Mr. Potter's _home_," Professor Snape said, the last word given a particularly harsh sneer. Before Dumbledore had the chance to question the reason as to why Professor Snape had made an unprecedented appearance at the Dursleys', the Potions Master continued on. "I was given a missive from the brat, asking me as his Head of House if I would be willing to take him to Diagon Alley for his school supplies since his Muggle relatives were less… _inclined_… to help him at this moment in time. Imagine my surprise when I arrived to find Mr. Potter a prisoner in his own _home_."

Dumbledore's ever-present twinkled faded a little bit, and Professor Snape had the satisfaction of seeing the old man go slightly pale at his words. Still, however, it didn't take long before the Headmaster was scrabbling for some sort of footing, "Severus, I'm surprised. You usually aren't inclined towards over exaggeration…"

"No," the other man began, slicing a hand through the air to cut Dumbledore off—even more incised than before at the subtle accusation that the Headmaster was making. That he was over exaggerating what he had found at the Dursleys'; that he was _making this up_, like some sort of storytelling first year. The fact that Dumbledore was willing to shrug this off, much as he had done when Professor Snape himself was a student at Hogwarts and the discovery of what he had found at the brat's _home_… it all paralleled too close to how he, himself, had grown up. The childhood that he had suffered through at his dearest father's hands. Finding that he had similarities to James Potter's son was disturbing enough, but combined with the fact that everything that he had believed about the brat was incorrect…?

The reason why Mr. Potter had been Sorted into Slytherin suddenly made so much more sense; Slytherin, after all, received more than its fair share of children who came from broken, less than ideal home lives. And now Professor Snape was greatly assured that Mr. Potter numbered among that particular group.

"I arrived at the Dursleys' house, _Albus_, with no less than fifteen locks upon Mr. Potter's door. There were bars on his window, and they fed him through a small opening at the bottom of the door. They obviously hadn't let him bathe in days: I could smell unwashed body from _downstairs_, Albus. And the boy was malnourished. Madam Pomfrey is currently looking over her newest charge, and Mr. Potter had removed his shirt before I had left. I could count his ribs, Albus; I could count the vertebrae in his back! They were _starving_ him, old man!"

"Surely, my boy, this is all just a giant misunderstanding…" Dumbledore began weakly, reeling from the information that had just been imparted to him. He had wondered, true, as to the reason why Harry seemed so much colder than James and Lily had ever been, mulled over the reason why the boy had been Sorted into Slytherin when his heart was oh-so obviously Gryffindor…

"This is not a misunderstanding. This is abuse," Professor Snape interrupted curtly. "Madam Pomfrey also wanted me to inform you that she is going to be reporting this to the Ministry's Child Services—and that if you attempt to stop her or to send Mr. Potter back to the Dursleys' this summer or ever again, she'll be putting in an addendum that you be charged with criminal negligence. Finally, Albus, until this situation gets resolved, I'm claiming guardianship of Mr. Potter due to my role within his life as his Head of House."

With that, Professor Snape charged back out of the Headmaster's office with the edges of his teaching robes snapping out around him, so much like a dark, avenging angel. The fact that _this_ angel was currently avenging the wrongs done to _Harry Potter_, the Boy-Who-Lived and Dumbledore's Ace in the hole in the fight against Voldemort, of all people was an example of cosmic irony at its best.

Professor Snape did his best not to think about it.

Instead, the man headed down to his quarters in the dungeons so that he could pour himself a very full glass of Firewhiskey with every intention of getting very, very drunk. Thankfully, he already knew that he would have several vials of Hangover Potion waiting for him in the morning, courtesy of one Madam Pomfrey.

"Oh, dear," was the only thing that Dumbledore could bring himself to say to an empty office and the threat looming over the horizon of an Ministry-driven official investigation—and the loss of the Blood Wards to protect Harry since, he already knew, there was no chance that the boy would be allowed to return to his home from this point on.

* * *

"I expect you to meet me in front of Madam Malkin's store at four p.m.," Professor Snape said as he stared down at the Snake that he would have never expected to relate to the most. "If you are not there, then you will be serving a detention with Mr. Filch tonight and each subsequent night for the rest of the week. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir," Harry murmured demurely, knowing that there was no way in hell that he was willing to botch this up—not when he now had Professor Snape, notorious hater of Boys-Who-Lived everywhere, on his side and defending him. To lose the protection of him and Madam Pomfrey would mean returning to the Dursleys' and the _wonderful_ home life that he had with them. "I'll make sure to be there on time, sir."

"See to it," Professor Snape said brusquely before finally raising his wand to lightly tap the scar upon Harry's forehead. It flared with pain for just a moment—it didn't linger long, thankfully—and a glamour of an unblemished forehead finally settled over the lightning bolt.

While Professor Snape could admit that he _did_ share similarities with Harry Potter and his Snake _did_ need to go shopping for his school supplies… it _didn't_ necessarily mean that he wanted to be the one to deal with school-related shopping for an entire day. So a glamour to keep the boy disguised and a curfew that his Snake would better make sure to make—otherwise the Boy-Who-Lived _wouldn't _be living to regret it.

With that, Harry was finally allowed to wander off on his own now that he wouldn't be recognized unless one was looking closely. The first stop that Harry made, however, was to Gringotts; gathering enough money from his trust fund to purchase what he needed, the boy also made sure to drop off the Philosopher's Stone in the family vault that he had learned just that day also belonged to him (nevermind the fact that no adult wizard had ever taken the time to explain to him that there was a difference between a family vault and a trust fund vault, which left it up to the goblins to inform the Potter heir as to where he stood financially). The family vault contained a great deal of money and family heirlooms, but Harry wouldn't be able to withdraw anything from it until he hit his majority.

However, that restriction didn't keep Harry from _depositing_ something in the vault. It was nice to finally place the Stone somewhere where he'd feel that it would be protected; keeping it on his person since the day that he had picked it up—literally—had been a bit nervewracking at times, especially during the incident where it had nearly ripped through his pants pocket after Dumbledore's attempt to summon it. Here, though… who would guess that the Philosopher's Stone, currently at large, was kept safe and sound within the Potter vaults? The whole situation was enough to make Harry laugh as he hid his new treasure in one of the rooms a fair distance away from the entrance.

Once the first chore was finished and Harry returned to the main alleyway, the boy meandered his way through Diagon Alley, peeking into stores that caught his interest and gathering his needed school supplies along the way. He was finished long before the appointed meeting time where he'd have to present himself for Professor Snape's perusal, and Harry glanced around to consider where else he might go between _now_ and _then_.

Catching sight of the _Daily Prophet_'s headquarters, Harry smiled.

* * *

_**THE BOY-WHO-LIVED – ALLOWED TO BE ABUSED BY MUGGLES?**_

_My avid, rabidly curious readers, I have a riveting story for you to peruse! Imagine my surprise when, earlier today, I was finishing up a different article when I should bump into none other than our Boy-Who-Lived! Harry Potter, aged twelve, had come to the headquarters of the __**Daily Prophet**__, wanting to investigate further since, as he had told me during his very first one-on-one interview, "I've always been curious about how newspapers worked. I know that it's a bit early to decide, but I wanted to see just what a reporter did—maybe I'd want to pick that as my career after I graduate… right?" But this is just a teasing tidbit of what is to come—because during our interview, I discovered to my absolute horror that our precious Boy Savior has been abused! By Muggles! And to make this entire situation even more heartbreaking, my devoted readers, I came to the knowledge that these Muggles were Harry Potter's relatives; his own flesh and blood had beaten, starved, and imprisoned him over the course of his twelve years! _

_What becomes even more shocking, though, is that his Head of House, one Professor Severus Snape, has now become the boy's champion, fighting tooth and claw for the safety and well-being of our Boy Savior. But where, I ask, does Headmaster Albus Dumbledore play in all of this since wouldn't it be expected that he be the authority figure that stands up for and protects Harry Potter's very life…? Read and find out! [for full interview, please see pages 2-6]_

With the newspaper sprawled out over his bed in Slytherin, Harry stared down at the article that Rita Skeeter had written—most of it true, surprisingly enough—and giggled in delight. With the wizarding world at large now knowing as to what his Muggle relatives had put him through, there was _no way_ that he'd be sent back.

Safe now within the bowels of Hogwarts and under the temporary guardianship of his Head of House, Harry's mind drifted for a moment: curious, now that there was an absolute certainty that he would never again have to return to Privet Drive, Harry couldn't help but wonder who it was that had _originally_ placed him in such a… home. With time now to investigate, the Slytherin would very much like to… _thank_… that particular person, perhaps even share the results of the tender care that his relatives had put him through.

It was only fair, after all.

* * *

The first day of the fall term started out with a surprise for Harry Potter. Settling down in a seat next to Hermione, waiting for Defense to begin (and their new teacher to preen his way down the rows of students), the boy blinked as Hermione took out a slim notebook and placed it upon her desk. It smelled just like so many of the books in the Restricted Section. Strangely enough, though, moreso than the "feel" of the books from the Restricted Section, the boy was reminded more of several dreams that he had been having since the start of last year—delicious dreams, warm dreams, the dreams that were always accompanied with bitter-chocolate whispers of his name and hellfire eyes. Harry reached out to trail a finger over its binding, fighting to keep his eyes from going heavy-lidded.

"Hermione…? Where did you get this?" Harry asked, glancing up to look at his best friend from the corner of his gaze. Startled by the question, Hermione blinked and gave Harry her full attention.

"I don't know, actually. I think that it might have been a free gift when I purchased my books. When I got home, it was tucked between my Herbology and Defense texts. Since it was empty, I thought that I could maybe use it to take my notes in."

"I don't think that it's wise," Harry advised, shaking his head and gently taking the book from her. "I think that I've grown a bit sensitive to certain magics over the course of last year, and this notebook feels a bit… funny. I don't think that you should use it. If it's okay, though, I'll take it and destroy it safely later on today…?"

A bit disappointed that she'd be losing a free notebook, Hermione still nodded her agreement to allow Harry to take it from her. While with anyone else, she'd question their reasoning and this whole "growing sensitive to certain magics" business, the Gryffindor trusted Harry implicitly. He would never knowingly lie to her, and if he said that the book felt "funny," then she'd trust him. Hermione could _see_ Harry growing into a powerful, competent wizard as their friendship flourished, and she was proud that she was close enough to him that he was worried about her over something that would probably be minor. He _cared_ about her, just as much as _she_ cared about _him_.

"All right, Harry," the girl acquiesced aloud, and then her expression suddenly turned sheepish. "…but can I borrow a couple of pieces of parchment for today? I don't have anything to write my notes on anymore."

Harry laughed at that and promptly leaned over to rifle through his bookbag, grabbing some paper for Hermione and slipping the odd notebook into an inside pocket while he was at it. Later on tonight was soon enough to explore just _what_, exactly, this notebook was. Still, though, Harry could hardly wait.

* * *

Harry kept the curtains of his bed snugly closed so that his other yearmates wouldn't see what it was that he was doing. They had been cautious of him since he had cursed the sixth year last fall, and Malfoy especially was always watching Harry with wide, silvery, watchful eyes. The raven-haired boy chortled at seeing that, at times, wondering if it was because Malfoy did it out of self-preservation—not wanting to find himself as the recipient of one of Harry's curses—or curiosity. Or perhaps his father put him up to it, or even Professor Snape.

It didn't matter in the end, though Harry thought that it got a bit annoying at times.

Adding in a Silencing Charm to go along with the Sticking one, Harry lightly tapped at his mouth with his unused quill for a moment or two before finally dipping the tip in his bottle of ink.

_What are you?_ he wrote, wondering if he was actually going to get an honest answer from the notebook—a diary, he had discovered when looking at it a bit more closely during his lunch period.

_I am what I am: a diary and nothing more._

Harry snorted, bemused by the diary's cheek.

_Well, that's a bald-faced lie_, the green-eyed Slytherin answered back. _I know for a fact that you're not "nothing more" than a diary. You reek of Dark magic. You remind me of some of my dreams. So what are you—really?_

Instead of bothering to answer Harry's question, the diary opted to pose one of its own: _Your dreams? And what would innocent little me have to do with your dreams? You just found me today, after all. Isn't that right? So perhaps you happen to be mistaken about the comparison._

_I'll answer your question if you answer mine_, Harry offered up, willing to bargain—to a certain point, anyway. It was never very smart to compromise with Dark artifacts. The wizard in question was usually the one who got the short end of the stick, unless he or she had been exceptionally careful.

The book was silent for several moments, but then the elegant script once more began to scrawl over the page, just beneath Harry's own writing. _I was the diary that belonged to Tom Marvolo Riddle. I'm the memories that he placed within my pages—remnants of his teenage self. So, my own question?_

Harry tapped the quill against his mouth once more, hedging on his time as he considered what would be safe to impart to this unknown entity. Finally, though, he ended up writing, _You have the same… feel, I suppose you can describe it as, as some of my dreams. The ones where I always see a pair of eyes—eyes with slitted pupils, like a cat's. They're my favorite dreams, which is why you caught my attention when my friend brought you out during class._

_What's your name?_

_Harry Potter_, the Slytherin wrote, confused as to why the diary would be wanting to ask something like that when the thread of their conversation had been—apparently, anyway?—going in a completely different direction. Still, though, Harry saw no harm in giving it a truthful answer.

However, the diary wrote no more that night.

* * *

Halloween was a quiet affair; Harry had told Hermione that he wanted to spend it alone after learning of his parents' death date—from a book! a bloody _book_!—and the Potter heir spent most of it curled up in the windowsill of the Common Room, looking out over the merpeople's village.

The darkness of the depths of the Black Lake was soothing when Harry was in this particular mood, and watching the merpeople drawing their hieroglyphics upon the rocks surrounding their village was soothing, in a way. It meant that Harry didn't have to think of anything much—just was given the chance to watch other people be productive, other people go about their daily lives. For Harry, at this moment, life was at a standstill and the night, he knew, would drag on far too long.

It gave him, too, time to put off considering another tidbit of information that he had learned from the book that dealt with his "history," the one that had been published not long after his interview that he had with Rita Skeeter that featured so prominently in the _Daily Prophet_. This tidbit if information, however, filled Harry with fury—and he realized, then, that it was rather easy to hate someone.

Albus Dumbledore had been the one to leave him with the Dursleys.

The flames of the torches within the Common Room snapped and popped abruptly, fueling higher for just a moment as Harry lingered briefly on that bit of knowledge, and the fires within the dormitories flared the green of the Killing Curse. Most of the Slytherins were at the Halloween Feast, but the ones who weren't shivered in trepidation—and then slowly made their way towards the portrait of Salazar Slytherin so that they might leave before anything truly bad happened.

Harry, however, stayed—and he thought himself alone.

That changed, though, when a subdued voice spoke from behind him. "You said at the beginning of first year that no one truly knows you. So… who _are_ you, Harry Potter?" The raven-haired Slytherin didn't move for a moment, but did—in the end—turn to look over the slim curve of a shoulder, meeting Draco Malfoy's slightly fearful gaze.

Harry quirked a mischief-laden smile, and it was something that normally would have relaxed the Malfoy heir… that is, if the smile didn't have a hard edge to it and if Harry Potter's eyes didn't gleam strangely in the shadows of their Common Room. It was at that moment that Draco wished that he hadn't asked, had just left the other alone for the seven years that they'd be sharing a dorm room. But, well, now it was too late, wasn't it?

"Do you really want to know?" the Boy-Who-Lived asked.

"Yes," came the whispered answer.

* * *

_I see that you've finally decided to start writing to me again._

_I… apologize… for my silence, Harry. Your name took me by surprise and I do admit that I had to take some time to process the fact that it is you who is writing to me._

_Oh? Why?_

_Ah, that's a story for another day, Harry. _

…_all right; I won't press. But to make this agreement even, I'd like something in return. Teach me a spell that very few people would know. Teach me a Dark spell._

_And why would you think that I would know any Dark spells, Harry?_

_Tom, you've been made into a Dark artifact._

_Touché._

_

* * *

_

Professor Lockhart had picked him to go against Ron Weasley in the first ever fight the Dueling Club would see. Before Harry had the chance to go up onto the stage, Professor Snape had dragged him off to the side by the collar of his robes, hissing out an order into Harry's ear, "No Dark Arts, Potter, or you'll be scrubbing out cauldrons for me until you graduate." Harry didn't verbally answer that particular order, but the look that he gave to the Potions Master spoke volumes in stereotypical teenager: 'No, duh.'

Professor Lockhart had also taken Weasley aside, slapping the boy proudly on his back before pushing the redhead up onto the stage. The Gryffindor stumbled a bit, but didn't fall, and turned a scowl onto the Defense teacher. It only took a moment, however, to straighten, and Weasley was soon enough in the first dueler's position.

"Potter," the other boy said, brown eyes hard; it was the same look that Weasley had given to him day after day, ever since Harry had first accepted the decision to be Sorted into Slytherin. It was disappointing, truly, but… Well, Harry hadn't expected much else. Besides, he did have Hermione. (And, from the cautious friendliness that Malfoy was exhibiting to him during meals and class times, perhaps the blonde pureblood, too.)

In answer to Weasley's greeting, Harry gave a tight nod.

"C'mon, Ronniekins!" one of the Weasley twins yelled out, cheering for their younger brother. The other laughed uproarishly before adding his own commentary, "Yeah, Ronniekins! Show the mean ol' Slytherin who's boss! Do that _one spell_!"

Weasley's eyes had hardened further when all he had received from Harry was a nod, and he darted forward before Professors Lockhart and Snape could signal the start of the duel. "Ha, Potter! Take this! _Serpensortia!_"

Harry's breath caught in surprise as a large—it must have been at least twelve feet long!—dark olive-colored snake flew from Weasley's wand, conjured from who knows where. It was a beautiful snake: a female with black, black eyes that had pupils edged in silver. He remembered an equally beautiful snake—this one a male—from his only visit to the zoo, and that wasn't all that Harry remembered, either. He remembered just what this snake's species was.

It was a Black Mamba.

And this gorgeous female was _pissed_.

»Throw me about like a toy, will you? Disrespect me and handle me roughly, will you? Think that this is a fucking _game_, do you? Not for long—I'll kill you; _I'll kill you all_ for how you've treated me. Fill your bodies with my venom, I will! You'll all soon be _dead_!«

»I'm sorry; I'm sorry,« Harry began in an attempt to soothe the angry serpent. »It was a child who summoned you, an idiot who didn't realize just how beautiful you are. He didn't know that he was supposed to look on you with respect and awe—because you truly are beautiful, my Lady. Breathtaking! I've never seen another one of your species whose eyes shone as brightly as yours do, whose scales were as dark as yours—almost as dark as night!«

The snake paused at that, head weaving from side to side as she viewed Weasley; tongue flicking out, tasting the Gryffindor's terror as the boy whimpered when the Black Mamba slowly made her way closer to "that child, an idiot" who had originally summoned her. »This is the child who was foolish enough to take me from my home?« the snake asked.

»Yes,« Harry answered, smirking at the redhead as the scent of a released bladder filled the air.

The silence was broken then by Professor Snape as the Head of Slytherin drew out his wand and began to chant, "_Vipera Evanes_—"

"No!" Harry yelled as he darted forward and put himself between his Professor's wand and the snake that had been brought to Hogwarts against her will. He was afraid that the spell would harm, maybe even kill, the stunning creature—and it wasn't fair to her! "Don't! It's not her fault! That idiot was the one who had summoned her in the first place! What did you expect? Her to be _happy_ about it?"

"Mr. Potter, I advise you to _move_. The creature is a danger to everyone here," Professor Snape hissed, eyes flaring angrily, and Harry knew then that he would be in a great deal of trouble once he and his Head of House were alone.

"No. She's fine now. She's calmer—really. See?" Harry said in answer, reaching out a hand to the venomous snake. The female flicked her tongue out, turning her head from side to side to inspect the humans around her, and then eventually slipped through Harry's robe's sleeve to twine about his arm; she made her way up to his shoulder, carefully draping herself over the boy's collarbone and resting her chin against the hollow of his throat. "See?" Harry repeated once more, voice dipping to a whisper as he reached up and trailed a finger over the top of the Black Mamba's head. "She won't hurt anyone. Please don't harm her, Professor. Not when it's not her fault."

Professor Snape's jaw tightened as he swallowed all the words that he wanted to shout at the idiot Slytherin—a Slytherin who could talk to snakes; the Boy-Who-Lived could talk to snakes!—and instead opted to remain silent until he could get the Potter heir alone.

Ronald Weasley, however, was the one who broke the silence that had descended upon the crowd. "You can talk to snakes. _You can talk to snakes._ You're a Parselmouth—just like Salazar Slytherin. You're not the Boy-Who-Lived! You're turning out to be just like You-Know-Who! _You're evil!_"

Whispers and stares filled the Hall, and—almost as one group—many of the students who had witnessed the exchange began to edge away from the dueling platform that Harry was still standing on. Seeing their reaction, Harry glared angrily and protectively laid a hand over the body of the snake that was pressed close to his body. Being able to talk to an animal didn't make someone _evil_! It was _stupid_ to think something like that; they were all _stupid, ignorant, foolish, bleating sheep_. No individual thought between them all!

Waiting until the Hall was emptied of everything except for him, Hermione, Professor Snape, and—surprisingly—Draco Malfoy, Harry finally turned to those who had stayed and quirked a strained smile at the lot. "So I take it that being able to talk to snakes isn't exactly a good skill to have?" he asked, figuring that an understatement rather fit his current mood.

His brave Gryffindor best friend was the first one to approach, though it was obvious that she was more than a bit nervous by doing so, the tension shown by how roughly she bit her lower lip. "….you said that the snake is a 'she'? What's her name, Harry?"

"Zambia," Harry said after a brief conference with Hogwarts' newest guest.

"She's very pretty, Harry," Hermione whispered.

"Thank you, Hermione," Harry said in answer, reaching out to gently squeeze his friend's hand. She squeezed back, trembling smile a bit more steady than before. As this was going on, Malfoy came a bit closer and reached out a hand, though waited until Harry nodded slightly before carefully trailing several fingers over the Black Mamba's silky scales. The gesture was unexpected, and Harry glanced over at the other boy, gaze thoughtful and considering, weighing the Malfoy heir's potential worth.

"Detention, Mr. Potter," Professor Snape said, breaking the brief moment between the three students. Harry sighed at that, but obediently followed after his Potions teacher, not willing to put up a fight—not when he was intending to talk Professor Snape into allowing Zambia to stay. Perhaps as a familiar since, after all, he could actually _talk_ to her. (Besides, it was either that or leave her out to be slaughtered—something that Harry was _not_ willing to let happen. A pointless, unneeded death was just that—pointless.)

* * *

_Hey, Tom…?_

_Mmm? What is it, Harry?_

_Was Salazar Slytherin a Parselmouth?_

_Yes. Why do you ask?_

_Was Lord Voldemort a Parselmouth?_

_Yes, he was a Parselmouth, too. Harry, why do you ask?_

_I'll get to that in just a minute, Tom. But… until then… tell me, do you think that being a Parselmouth automatically makes someone evil? Or just Dark?_

_That's a hard question to answer. All of the wizards that I know about who were Parselmouths also happened to be Dark wizards. So I suppose that the question can be answered with a yes and a no, depending on how you view things._

_Well, do you think that being Dark automatically makes you evil?_

…_Harry. Why all the questions?_

_I'm a Parselmouth._

_What? That's impossible!_

_Tell that to the Black Mamba that's currently taking a nap on my chest._

There was no reply to Harry's comment after several minutes and, concerned, the second year frowned slightly and scratched out a hurried, _Tom? Are you okay?_

…_yes… But I need some time to think about this, Harry._

Harry closed the notebook—the diary—with a deeper frown, lightly trailing his fingers up and down the binding of the book in a gesture that had, in a way, become a bit of a security blanket for him. He had, in a way, expected Tom to react with shock and, perhaps, some fear—but the diary of the other boy had instead reacted with instant denial. Why would he react in such a way when everyone else had been terrified at discovering his ability?

It was food for thought.


	5. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

"I am worried, Severus," Albus Dumbledore murmured to the man who sat across from him, the two of them very much alone in his office. He had heard stories of what had happened during Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley's dueling match—stories that he would have believed to be rumors except for the fact that the Boy-Who-Lived had taken to wearing a certain venomous snake to his classes like some sort of live necklace.

"Oh? And what is it that worries you about Mr. Potter?" Professor Snape drawled in reply, more concerned with the stack of essays that awaited him—and his red ink—than indulging the Headmaster in his paranoid musings about his second year Snake.

"I am beginning to believe that history is once more going to repeat itself, and that we'll have another Dark Lord on our hands," the Headmaster said, voice subdued as he stared off into the corner of his office, idly taking in the sight of the cabinet with the various Pensieve memories that he had collected over the decades, all memories that somehow or other had to do with Tom Riddle Jr. "Both Parselmouths, both Sorted into Slytherin. Both too deeply interested in the Dark Arts at a very young age; both, as well, coming from a less-than-ideal homelife. I have felt stirrings of Dark magic coming from the Slytherin rooms, and I can't help but wonder just how much of it has been generated by young Harry."

In answer to that, Professor Snape only snorted. It was only earlier that evening, after all, that he had had the Potter heir quietly—politely, even!—requesting that he allow Zambia to stay as his familiar, offering up his services in the Potions lab far beyond the time of his detention. He had allowed the snake to stay (as long as she remained on her best behavior), and he gained an assistant that would help him prepare the ingredients for his classes for the next four months. A win-win situation for the Potions Master, if nothing else.

Still, though, as pleased as Professor Snape currently was, he still had to deal with the concerns of the Headmaster. "Perhaps, sir," the dark-haired man began as he finally pushed himself up and out of the chair that he had been settled in for the past fifteen minutes. "Perhaps, sir, you should consider the age-old debate between nature versus nurture."

Leaving it at that, Professor Snape made his way out of Dumbledore's sanctuary. The old man lingered for a bit longer, eyes closed as he dipped into his own recollection of the past: the first meeting that he had ever had with Tom Riddle, the boy who had been the brightest and most talented student that had ever attended Hogwarts. The boy who had grown up to be one of the Darkest wizards that the world had ever known.

"_I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to do, without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who are mean to me. I can make them hurt if I want to... I can __speak to snakes__, too. They find me, whisper things."_

Yes, Albus Dumbledore was very much afraid of what was yet to pass.

* * *

_Tom, come on. It's been a __**month**__. Aren't you yet over whatever it was that I said that made you angry with me? Come on, answer back. Please? I'm tired of talking to a diary that doesn't bother to answer back._

There was silence for several long moments but then, for the first time in weeks, Tom's familiar, elegant handwriting once more appeared on the pages of the diary. Seeing the words slowly appear made Harry release the breath that he hadn't realized that he'd been holding, a wave of relief settling deep in his bones as Tom finally, _finally _was willing to once more talk to him.

_I was never angry with you, Harry. I was just… taken aback._

_By me being a Parselmouth?_

_Yes, by you being a Parselmouth. It's not exactly a common trait, you know._

_Really? I didn't know that. I thought that loads of wizards would be able to talk to snakes. I mean, I never really realized that I was actually speaking a different language until other people pointed it out to me._

_Oh? Was the Black Mamba your first encounter with Parseltongue, Harry?_

_No, Zambia wasn't the first time that I've talked with a snake. The summer before my first year, I went to the zoo and accidentally set a python on my cousin Dudley. __**Accidentally**__, though!_

_**Accidentally**__, mmm? I'm sure that that's so._

_Oh, shut up, Tom._

_

* * *

_

"Oh, Harry! The Gryffindor second years have finally been given the list of classes that we can take as electives starting next year! Has Professor Snape given you the list yet, too?" Hermione said with a happy smile as she plopped herself down into the chair next to Harry at their usual table in the library.

Harry chuckled at that and just silently waved the sheet of paper that he had been perusing at his best friend. Seeing that it was the exact same list that she had been given, Hermione's cheeks pinkened slightly at the realization that she should have at least taken a moment to _see_ what it was that Harry was looking at before gushing happily.

The girl cleared her throat, though, and decided to forge ahead. "Have you decided what classes you might want to take for next year?" she asked, scooting closer to see if Harry had marked any classes of interest on the list given to the both of them. Seeing that, however, Harry snorted in bemusement and lightly tugged on one of Hermione's out-of-control curls.

"I've pretty much decided, yeah," the boy answered in reply before turning his thoughtful gaze back to the piece of parchment. "I've narrowed it down to three classes, but I have to pick between two of them since they're at the same time."

"Oh? What classes are those?" Hermione asked, immediately perking up in interest.

"Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, and Divination," the boy answered, voice absent as he lightly tapped a quill against his mouth—a habit that he had picked up whenever he was considering various options, and a habit that had been further ingrained since he had started writing to Tom.

Hearing the last option, however, Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Divination, Harry? You should know better than that—most students only take it to get an easy 'O.'"

The Slytherin chuckled at that, looking slyly at his best friend from the corner of his gaze. "But did you know, though, that there are many cultures that consider Divination Dark Arts?" he asked, voice conversational. Hermione blinked in surprise at that and opened her mouth to inquire further, but Harry—knowing full well what it was that Hermione was going to say—just continued on: "I mean, think about it, 'Mione. It's the Art of _looking into the future_, something that should be considered taboo. I mean, if someone had knowledge of what was to come, just imagine what could happen—the changes that could be made, the diversion in the flow of time. When it works, it's not exactly a very _nice_ branch of magic, don't you think? There are so many things that could go wrong or could be made worse. That's why it's considered Dark Arts in a lot of different cultures; to them, the future is sacred, is taboo and untouchable."

The girl frowned at that, head tilted to the side and allowing her thick hair to tumble over a shoulder. "How do you know about all of this?" she asked, curious and wanting to know in turn.

Harry laughed at that and quirked a playful brow at his Gryffindor best friend. "I read about it," he answered simply. Hermione's frown deepened, and Harry knew that it was better to continue to elaborate. "When I was doing research about the three classes, I read a bit more about Divination than the other two once I stumbled across one of the books mentioning that it was Dark. It got me curious, so I found more books about the subject."

"Harry," the girl chided quietly, "You know as well as I that you shouldn't be taking advantage of the fact that Professor Snape forgot to write down an ending period for the time that you're allowed to use the Restricted Section."

To that, Harry just playfully winked before reaching into his bag to draw something out. "Would you like to see what I've learned in what I've read?" he instead asked, drawing Hermione away from the lecture that he knew would be starting soon, offering up tidbits of new knowledge—something that he was fully aware that Hermione would never be able to resist.

The Gryffindor nodded at that, and Harry withdrew a deck of Tarot cards. "I'm still learning a bit about the different spreads, so how about we do something simple for now? Just draw out a card—only one—and that's supposed to represent your inner self. So shuffle the cards until you feel comfortable, 'Mione."

With that particular bit of instruction, Harry handed over the Tarot deck and smirked in amusement as Hermione glanced down at them dubiously. Still, though, the girl did as he had asked and promptly began to shuffle them. It took a while until Hermione was finally happy with how thoroughly they had been mixed together, and she finally withdrew a single card at Harry's gesture.

"The High Priestess," the Slytherin murmured, bemused, as he leaned over his friend's shoulder to see which card it was that the girl had managed to draw.

"What does it mean?" Hermione asked; she would have vehemently denied it should Harry have called her on it, but the girl was actually… curious… to learn what her card meant, how it applied to _her_.

"The High Priestess is the card of knowledge, the knowledge that she's both willing to part with and the knowledge that she keeps hidden," Harry explained, and gave a smirk and sidelong glance to Hermione. "It makes me wonder, then, just how much _more_ information you have stuffed in that genius brain of yours since you always enjoy sharing as much of it as possible." The girl scowled playfully at the tease, and then the Slytherin continued with a quiet laugh. "See the moon right here?" Harry continued, pointing to the crescent in the corner of the card. "It stands for illumination; the High Priestess is supposed to illuminate, to _impart_, information and knowledge to others. Pretty fitting, I'd say."

Hermione glanced away at that, but Harry could see from the blush that dusted her cheeks that she was secretly pleased with her result. It wasn't much long afterwards, though, that she cleared her throat and again gave her best friend her full attention. "And what card is supposed to represent you, Harry?" she asked, curious despite herself.

Harry smiled at that and promptly shuffled the deck of cards, only taking a moment until he was satisfied with how thoroughly the Tarot had been mixed. He pulled a card then, showing it to Hermione—already knowing which one it was because, after all, it had been the same card that he had managed to pull each and every time he had tried this.

The Tower.

* * *

_Tom, when you were young, did you attend Hogwarts?_

_I did. I went to Hogwarts starting in 1938, finishing up in the early summer of '45. While I was here, I was even made a Prefect and got to be Head Boy in my seventh year._

_Really? That's wicked! You must have been really smart._

_I was._

_Oh, don't get a fat head, Tom._

_How can I? I'm a diary, after all; no head to fatten, Harry._

_Ha. Ha. Anyway, Tom, this will probably be a pretty self-explanatory question, but which H—_

_Slytherin, of course._

_Of course._

_I'm surprised, though, that you managed to get Sorted into Slytherin, Harry._

_Really? Why's that?_

_You're the Boy-Who-Lived, after all._

…_Tom? Where did you learn that name?_

_

* * *

_

The world was painted in shades of gray, eerie ghosts crowding in on the edges of his vision. Gray, gray the world was—colored with shadows that hid, shadows that obscured, shadows that welcomed with open, waiting arms. Harry moved through this world as if caught in a dream, eyes heavy-lidded with the remainder of sleep—a sleep that he hadn't yet awoken from as the black silhouette coaxed, cajoling softly, leading him step by step to the bathroom that Hermione had once told him that nobody used.

_Here, Haaaaarry…_ the voice from his dreams murmured, voice wrapping around his limbs and easing him closer to the single faucet that contained a feature that was different from all the rest: a small serpent coiled about the metal, body poised and ready to strike should the need arise. _Say »Open,« and you shall soon see wonders that have not been looked upon and cherished in decades, in centuries before that._

The boy leaned closer at the quiet request and he hissed out the order in Parseltongue, savoring—for just a minute—how the word curled upon his tongue, writhing in an almost sensuous manner that was seductive in its power. Sensing this, the voice chuckled quietly and the taste of bitter dark chocolate flooded his mouth, making him shiver desperately with a new type of _want_.

Next, the voice encouraged Harry to call for something that looked like a human-sized dumbwaiter—the tunnel that had been revealed at his order to »Open.« had been at too sharp of an incline for Harry to have safely gone down it without getting hurt. The ancient "elevator" slowly, carefully, took Harry down into the depths of the secret that he had revealed as the opening above him closed, sealing the tunnel off from any curious eyes.

Still entranced, Harry followed the voice's guidance and made his way through caverns—caverns filled with huge, sparkling crystals that reached to the ceiling high above him, caverns that glowed with a rainbow of colors, caverns that sparkled and were coated in fine gold dust, all caverns that were rich and beautiful and enticing—until the boy finally was forced to stop before a huge metal door.

»Open,« the Slytherin hissed once more, and the door unlocked itself and opened before his firm order. The series of caves that were revealed were breathtaking in their majesty: the largest caverns yet, merging human ingenuity with the graceful beauty of Nature working at her best. In the middle of the largest opening was an incredibly huge statue of a man that Harry could only guess to be Salazar Slytherin.

As the boy made his way deeper into the Founder's hidden quarters, there was a brief stirring of movement from the corner of Harry's eyes. He glanced over, eyes widening briefly as a incredibly large snake slithered itself into the open from one of the pipes that connected various caves with one another. Its eyes, strangely, were carefully closed.

»Have you come to visit me?« the snake asked as its tongue flicked out, tasting the air and sensing where Harry was. Its massive bulk began to circle around the student, capturing the boy—or curiously inspecting him, depending on how one looked at it. »I've been _sssssso_ terribly lonely since Master left long ago, and The Boy stopped visiting after him, not long after he had first found me.«

»What's your name?« Harry asked cautiously, reaching out and gently resting a hand upon the snake's flank. It hummed in contentment, turning its willingly blinded head to butt its nose against the boy's chest.

»Master called me 'Grendel.' He thought it amusing for some reason,« the snake answered easily enough and let its tongue flicker out so that it could taste Harry, learn his scent and commit it to memory. Harry, knowing full well why Slytherin had thought the name funny, stifled a snort and shifted to lean his full weight against the beast.

»My name's Harry,« the boy replied, introducing himself as the snake curled tighter around him, almost protective in its body language. It was strange, to see a creature immediately so attached to another, but perhaps it—Grendel—was telling the truth when it had spoken of being lonely. »And yes, I've come to visit you.«

»This pleases me very much, Harry.«

* * *

Harry awoke the next morning tucked safely in the coils of a very large, very lethal, very _friendly_ basilisk. He yawned slightly, still sleepy enough not to be afraid or wonder how he had originally gotten here, and closed his eyes to lean his head back against the thick, scaly hide. Salazar's Chamber of Secrets. _The Chamber of Secrets_. He had found it—and so had, apparently, someone else who had attended the school if what Grendel had said was to believed. Interestingly enough, "The Boy" that Grendel had spoken of had been the last of Slytherin's line. Which then piqued the basilisk's curiosity as to how Harry had not only found the Chamber but was also capable of speaking Parseltongue.

»I dunno,« the boy had answered with a loose shrug, comfortable enough with the beast to combine both questions into a single reply—and letting it be a rather blasé retort, at that. Grendel had hissed thoughtfully at that before finally deciding that it didn't matter: there was still at least one person in the world who was capable of conversing with it, and it wasn't willing to question the reason _why_. The snake was too grateful to no longer be alone.

As Harry stirred himself more completely awake, giving another jaw-breaking yawn, Grendel chuckled to itself and once more nudged Harry—this time, so that the boy was forced to stand. »Come, Harry. There are more of Master's secrets that I wish to show to you, things that he had kept hidden from the 'blood traitors' that eventually betrayed him. Come, come.«

And so the boy went, trotting easily after the huge basilisk, all while posing inquiries so that he might find out more about Salazar Slytherin, the other Founders, and just what it had been like for the famous man while he had remained here at Hogwarts. The conversation was, in the end, rather enlightening.

* * *

_Hey, Tom! TomTomTomTOM! You'd never believe what I found!_

_Mmm? What is it, Harry?_

_I found Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets!_

_WHAT?_

_And then I found out that everything that we've ever known about him has been propaganda and dead-wrong! I mean, everyone always talks about how Slytherin hated Muggleborns and wanted to get rid of them and refuse to teach them at Hogwarts, right? Well, that's actually __**not**__ right! He didn't like Muggles, not Muggleborns, and he wanted to take magical children away from Muggles at an early age so that they could be educated in our world and distance themselves away from the Muggle world! So that they wouldn't be out of sorts when they first arrived at Hogwarts! But the other three Founders thought that it was wrong to take Muggleborns away from their parents for any reason and thought that Salazar Slytherin was cruel for introducing the idea in the first place. That he was evil for considering the option of separating parent and child._

_**WHAT?**_

_Yeah! Crazy, I know, right? But there's more to it, too… Did you know that the term 'blood traitor' actually originally wasn't supposed to mean someone who sympathized with the Muggle world? It actually meant someone who __**preferred**__ the Muggle world over the wizarding one—so someone who had, effectively, turned their backs completely on their own blood!_

_Where the __**bloody hell**__ did you learn all this, Harry?_

_A giant snake told me._

Tom Riddle's diary began seeping ink right about then, and Harry couldn't help but wonder if the ghost—spirit—soul—brainless-entity that inhabited the diary was actually weeping from everything that he had just said.

"...oops."

* * *

Ever since the incident where the youngest male Weasley had conjured the snake during the dueling exercise, most of the student population gave Harry a wide berth. Very few people were willing to speak to him—the exceptions mostly being Slytherins (of course) and Hermione—and even a great many of the professors now looked at him with an assessing gaze. Dumbledore himself seemed to have joined in and indulged everyone else by staring at Harry as if he were some sort of symbol of the Second Coming.

In answer to all of those suspicious, afraid stares, Harry typically answered by scowling angrily back. 'What? Do you have a problem with me? C'mon! Speak up!' his looks dared his fellow students. But everyone was too cowardly to say anything. That didn't stop them from _doing_ anything, however.

Bit by bit, other students began to appear wearing some sort of amulet—green, the amulets were, and seemed to have a symbol of a snake wriggling about _somewhere_ on the metal surface. Besides that, many of the Gryffindors began to hiss quietly beneath their breaths whenever Harry was walking past—and that particular habit was started by none other than Ronald Weasley himself.

By the time that the early days of February rolled around, Harry was more than thoroughly sick of it.

Waiting until the morning of Valentine's Day, Harry watched as an elderly owl swooped down and deposited a box of homemade chocolate before each of the Weasley siblings before flying away; letting Weasley chatter smugly about his sweets to his other dormmates, Harry gave a small smirk and waved his wand beneath the table, silently intoning '_Oderunt dum Metuant_' very carefully, very specifically within his mind. 'Let them hate, so long as they fear'—a curse that Tom had taught Harry at the boy's insistence when the disgust and the fury with his fellow students had finally gotten too much to handle.

Suddenly, Weasley began to scream; he jerked away from the table, slapping frantically at his arms and legs, brushing at his clothes as his shrieks became higher and higher in pitch. "Get them off! Get them off! GET THEM FUCKING OFF OF ME! They won't get off! I can't get them off! _THERE'RE MORE! THEY JUST KEEP COMING!_"

The people in the Great Hall watched in dawning horror as Ronald Weasley began to claw at his arms and face in his panic attack, trying desperately to brush away something that only he could see. Most students were shell-shocked, at a loss as what to do to help the redhead.

All the while, Harry Potter calmly sipped at his mug of coffee.

* * *

"Harry! Have you picked out which electives you'll be taking next year?" Hermione asked as she trotted to keep up with Harry's longer strides as they made their way out of Potions class.

Harry 'mmm'ed in answer before finally nodding. "Yeah, I've decided on Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Divination is still really tempting, but I figured that I'd just study it on my own. I only really like the Tarot cards, anyway."

"You know, you never did tell me what The Tower meant," Hermione scolded lightly as she made her way closer to comfortably tuck her hand at the bend of Harry's elbow; it was a gesture that she had recently adopted, one that Harry didn't mind and so allowed her to continue on—she was perhaps the only one that he didn't mind touching him, anyway. So what harm did it do?

The boy gave another 'mmm' in agreement before glancing at his best friend from the corner of his eyes, smirking playfully at the girl. "I didn't, did I?" he mused aloud, though the wicked glint in his eyes warned Hermione that she wouldn't be getting an answer to her 'round-about inquiry. "Ah, well."

"Harry!" Hermione said and lightly swatted him.

To that, the boy just laughed. "Curiosity killed the cat, 'Mione."

Knowing that she finally would be able to one-up him, something that very rarely happened between the two of them (if only because Hermione was more willing to play nice and by the rules while the boy was more lenient in their "interpretation"), the girl smirked smugly at her Slytherin friend. "Oh, but you forget, Harry, that satisfaction brought it back."

Harry gaped.

* * *

_Harry, how did you find the Chamber of Secrets?_

_The Voice was the one who led me there. You remember? I talked a little bit about it in our first conversation—when I mentioned the dreams that I sometimes have._

_And it led you to the Chamber?_

_Yeah! It even told me how to open it, Tom. And summon the elevator-device._

…_**elevator-device**__, Harry?_

_Well, it's either that or call it a __**human-dumbwaiter**__. Which would you prefer?_

_Tsk, tsk, tsk. Harry, you're such a little idiot._

_Pfffft. Get bent, Tom._

_Oh, don't you wish~?_

For the second time in just as many days, Harry Potter found himself gaping in shock.

* * *

It was after midnight and Harry had managed—just barely—to avoid the clutches of roaming Prefects, professors, Mr. Filch, and Mrs. Norris. He had been particularly lucky with the latter two since Harry had heard rumors that Mr. Filch was petitioning Dumbledore to reinstate the old punishments… such as the ones where students were hung upside down from their toes.

Grimacing to himself, Harry shook his head and made his way further into the castle, heading towards the trophy room that he had always passed but had never really stopped to look at. Sure, he knew that his father had several Quidditch-related trophies in the room, but… he wasn't there for that. Not tonight.

Going to the trophy area that was from the 1930's and 40's, Harry's gaze scanned various names and pictures, looking for the one that he had slowly, over time, become more and more intrigued by.

And—_there_—he had found it.

_For Magical Merit demonstrated through his Seven Years as well as Important Services rendered unto this School, Hogwarts, we give this Prestigious Award to one Tom Marvolo Riddle Jr., Prefect and Head Boy; June 1945_

So Tom really _had_ existed.

He had been telling the truth about attending Hogwarts, about being a student here. But there wasn't much more that Harry knew about the other boy. It had recently begun to dawn upon the green-eyed Slytherin that Tom knew a great deal more about Harry than Harry knew about Tom—and a great deal of that information that Tom knew startled Harry because of the large _amount_. How was it that Tom knew much of what he _did_ know? It… worried Harry, especially considering just how attached he was getting to the diary and the spirit that animated it.

"Just who _are_ you?" Harry asked the award, pressing his forehead against the glass of the cabinet. The Slytherin already knew, though, that Tom would actually never tell him the truth—that was just how their House functioned. Secrets were kept close and truths were never fully revealed. Doing so left one vulnerable to others.

* * *

"Hermione?" Harry asked as they walked arm-in-arm along the shore of the Black Lake. The boy's eyes were a bit distant, though he managed to give his friend his fully attention when she gave an inquiring sound in answer. He quirked a small smile at that, but it soon enough turned subdued. "Why do you think that the Headmaster left me at the Dursleys'? I mean, couldn't I have gone somewhere else? Why leave me with them? Why leave me with Muggles?"

Surprised at the question that the other was giving to her, Hermione swallowed and began to tread carefully; she knew that the Dursleys had always been a touchy subject for Harry and, after reading the _Daily Prophet_ article, the girl finally realized why. They were abusive, horrible people, and Hermione hoped that karma caught up to them—and soon!

Despite her own curiosity, Hermione had made sure not to ask any questions about the article, hoping that Harry would be willing to talk about things with her when he felt more ready. And, for some reason, today was the day that he apparently needed to talk about what had happened. Gently, she moved closer and rested her head upon his shoulder.

"I don't know, Harry," Hermione murmured quietly, hugging Harry's arm tight with both of her own. "Maybe he thought that you'd be safer—for whatever reason—with your mother's family. That maybe V… Voldemort's followers would still come after you if you remained in the wizarding world. Maybe he was trying to protect you…?"

"That's a lot of 'maybes,' 'Mione."

"I'm sorry, Harry. I can't really think of anything else to really say…" Hermione answered, sniffling a bit softly, almost on the brink of tears for her best friend. She hated the fact that he had been dealt so many horrible things in his short life, and he truly was her role model because he had been able to rise above them all and _survive_—and become this young man who was her very best, very first friend. He was absolutely amazing, and Hermione wondered if Harry realized just how much she admired him.

"It's all right. I don't think that anyone does," came the quiet reply, and Hermione could feel Harry gently resting his cheek on the top of her head. Offering up comfort, the girl tightened her hold as they continued walking along the Black Lake's shoreline.

"…no matter what, I'll always be here for you, Harry," the girl whispered.

"I know."

* * *

_Are you __**sure**__ that this is going to work?_

_Of course, Harry. Have I ever yet steered you wrong before?_

_No… but we have to make sure that the spell is __**untraceable**__. That's the part that I'm mostly worried about—so, are you __**absolutely certain**__ that this is going to work? Really, truly, 100% positive of your Evil Powers of Greatness?_

_Of course. I'm a genius, after all._

_Again, Tom: Fat head._

_Oh, shut up, Harry._

_

* * *

_

The day that the students of Hogwarts were to return to their homes—all except one Harry Potter—dawned bright and clear with nary a cloud in the sky. Harry woke early, lazily lolling about for a bit longer in his bed, wanting to listen to the quiet breathing of his fellow dormmates now that he knew that he would be without them for the next several months.

There was something comforting about the sound of another human being.

Eventually, however, Harry shook his head at the sentimental turn of his thoughts and rolled onto his belly so that he could _continue_ rolling—eventually rolling right out of bed, his usually preferred method of waking up (despite how silly it was).

To his surprise, however, Harry found a small present on the dresser next to his bed—wrapped in the Malfoy family's color. The obvious show of pride was enough to make Harry snort in bemusement, and the boy reached out, curious to see what it was that Draco had decided to give to him.

Beneath the wrapping was a Dark Arts book—_Dark_ Dark, not the shadowy-Dark that Harry had been mostly making do when studying on his own (though Tom was quickly changing that, not that anyone else knew)—carefully spelled so that the Hogwarts wards wouldn't be able to pick up on the perceived "intrusion." Tucked beneath the cover was what Harry had first thought of as a bookmark but, upon closer inspection, realized was an invitation to Malfoy Manor over the summer holidays—with Professor Snape's permission granted, of course.

Snorting softly at that, Harry shook his head at Draco's—no longer Malfoy; hadn't been "Malfoy" for some months now—audacity and glanced over to the blonde's bed. The other boy was already awake, watching Harry with an expectant air and with a glowing light bright behind the silver of his eyes.

_I'll ask him_ _once everyone has left and the professors have settled down for the hols_, Harry mouthed silently to the Malfoy heir and Draco nodded in response to that. After all, with Professor Snape still Harry's undisputed guardian (magical and legal, both), it was up to the Potions Master to say "aye" or "nay." The decision wouldn't be up to Harry in the end.

…but Draco was still pretty certain that Professor Snape would allow Harry to visit.

He had grown fond of the Snake being used for manual labor—aka, the detentions served with the dark-haired man where Harry had been required to prepare different classes' Potions ingredients—and Draco was rather certain that Professor Snape would agree.

If he got something in return, anyway.

With that particular thought in mind, Draco watched as Harry absently finished rolling out of bed and headed towards the trunk at the foot of his bed; the raven-haired boy grabbed his neat basket of toiletries and then immediately proceeded to head towards the bathroom for his morning shower. Most of the boys opted to clean themselves the night before, but Harry enjoyed having the time to himself and the leisurely pace that he could shower at, and so he had gotten into the habit of awakening early so that he could bathe before breakfast. Draco, for his own part, just rolled over once more and returned to sleep.

* * *

Harry could admit, at least to himself, that it was rather depressing watching the Hogwarts Express speed away without him on it.

It wasn't so much the fact that he would be lonely during the summer months (how could he, now that he had Tom's company?), but that he had begun to realize that he took Hermione's companionship for granted. It was easy enough to forget about friends during the previous summer months since all Harry had during that time was the chance to focus on his own misery at the hands of his horrible relatives, but... that would be changing from this point on since Harry had now been assigned as a ward to the school (and one Severus Snape, his Head of House). He wouldn't have to worry about cupboards or meals every several days or even being denied the chance to bathe only once a week: for the entire summer, he was (mostly) free to do what he wanted. Homework at his leisure, regular meals, and (mostly) free reign of the castle and its grounds. Compared to the Dursleys', his current situation was Paradise.

Stretching idly, Harry turned and headed back towards the castle up upon the far off hill, following after the professors and absently eavesdropping on their various conversations. He smirked when he learned of a new tidbit that he hadn't come across before. Pleased with himself, it was really rather difficult to keep himself from cackling in delight.

Looks like Tom had been right. It was unfortunate, though, that Harry probably wouldn't get the chance to see the Headmaster until after the... _dreadful affliction_... had already been fixed, but it would always brighten up his day to hope. He would, though, have to remember to profusely thank Tom for the help, as well as apologize for the doubt that he had shown originally.

The only downside to this entire situation was that Tom was going to get _such _a fat head from all of this.

* * *

Mournfully, Albus Dumbledore stood before his bathroom's mirror and stared at his mouth, hidden away in his private quarters. He had skipped the Farewell Feast the night before because of his _current predicament_, and this _current predicament_ was being rather stubborn in allowing him to resolve itself. Nothing he did had fixed the results of whatever _mischief_ someone had been up to, and Dumbledore was left to glare in irritation at his reflection.

And his toothless gums.

Someone had had the _audacity_ to curse his lemon drops, which then had caused all of his teeth to fall out. It had happened at once, which meant that Dumbledore had had no time to circumvent the atrocity, and now...? Now, he was left with bespelled sweets, no teeth, and an inability to properly pronounce any of his spells. Which meant that it would take even longer to _fix_ this issue.

Dumbledore sighed forlornly and gave his tin of lemon drops a longing glance.

Irony, at times, was such a too-cruel Mistress.

**- End Year 2 -**


	6. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER SIX**

When Harry received permission from Professor Severus Snape to spend several days at Malfoy Manor, the soon-to-be third year Snake spent several long moments before the mirror in his bedroom, staring musingly at his reflection. Though no one had actually come forward and _said_ anything (too many lessons learned at the end of an annoyed Potter heir's wand), it hadn't been very difficult to notice the sneers that still managed to upturn the corners of many of the purebloods' mouths.

The emerald-eyed boy frowned thoughtfully, head tilting to the side as he considered the clothes that he wore: most of the time, Harry's school robes obscured Dudley's cast-offs; the trainers that were stained beyond repair (not even a well-aimed _Scourgify_ had managed to improve their looks), the shirts that pillowed over his slight frame (and wasn't that a backhanded blessing; only think of the looks that Harry would have been given if he had been as large of a whale as Dudley!), and the pants that had to be cinched tight with a belt—otherwise they would have long ago pooled about the Potter heir's ankles.

Perhaps it was more than time enough for a makeover.

* * *

It was, surprisingly enough, easy to get Professor Snape to agree to take him to Diagon Alley. All it took was a willingness for Harry to sell the Potions Master his free time for the rest of the summer (barring his visit to Malfoy Manor, of course). In a way, as Harry cajoled Professor Snape in as manipulative a manner as possible to do Slytherin House proud, the young boy couldn't help but wonder if this was what it felt like when one wanted to sell their soul to the Devil. _Mephistopheles__, eat your heart out. Professor Snape could definitely give you a run for your money_, Harry thought to himself before giving his Head of House his best, most charming smile possible.

The moment passed, however, and Harry diverted his full attention to trying to talk his Head into acquiescing to his request. The single moment where it looked as if his Head of House would refuse the shopping expedition on principle—after all, who in their _right mind_ would want to take a young teenager _clothes_ shopping?—Harry finally completely suckered his Potions Master into the idea when he mentioned off-handedly that they could also pick up his school supplies for the upcoming year.

This aspect was rather appealing to Professor Snape because it meant that he didn't have to take Harry out again, when it was closer to September first. So the Potions Master agreed to the boy's favor—though Harry's promise to help him in the Potions lab played a large part in that agreement—and they both headed out to Diagon Alley later on that same week.

"I take it that I can leave you unsupervised for a day?" Professor Snape asked as he glanced over to eye his favorite apothecary; there was a sale going on, and the Potions Master had been finding it more and more difficult to get quality supplies for his personal stores at reasonable prices…

"Yes, sir," Harry said promptly in return.

The dark-clad man couldn't help but glance over at his young charge then, gaze shrewd as he eyed the Boy Savior up and down. "I take it that I can leave you unsupervised for a day—with an express promise your little dunderheaded self that you won't be making any exploratory trips into the _Daily Prophet_'s building, main one or otherwise, nor will you 'accidentally' bump into any roaming reporters?"

Even Harry had to admit that his grin bordered on cheeky. "No, sir. No _Daily Prophet_ visits or bumping into reporters. Clothes and school shopping only."

"Make sure that that promise is kept, or you'll be continuing to help me as an assistant once classes begin once more. And, this year, we'll be using Stinging Nettle venom in many of our potions." Remembering his sole experience with the loathsome plant, Harry grimaced and considered himself well-warned. Needless to say, he'd be on his best behavior.

"Yes, sir," Harry said again when it became obvious that Professor Snape was waiting for a verbal confirmation before the man felt comfortable enough to leave a glamoured Harry on his own. Giving a sharp nod, the Potions Master turned with a snap of his robes and headed towards the alleyway that contained several apothecaries.

Left to his own devices, the Boy-Who-Lived grinned widely and decided that he'd get his clothes shopping done first. Retrieving his school supplies wouldn't take all that long, and it was the new clothes—no more hand-me-downs from Dudley—that Harry was looking forward to the most.

"_Wicked_," he breathed under his breath before heading towards Madam Malkin's.

* * *

"You certainly make a rather _striking_ figure," Draco Malfoy drawled idly with disguised interest as he looked his guest up and down as Harry Potter stepped out of the fireplace, the green flames caused by the Floo powder guttering out behind him.

In answer to that, Harry just grinned unrepentantly and spread his arms wide so that Draco could see, for the first time, just how much Harry had changed in the month since the blonde had last seen the other.

The first difference that was to be observed was the fact that Harry had left his Muggle wardrobe behind to fully embrace his wizarding roots. The first thing of note was that the boy had adopted the newly popular habit of young male wizards in wearing a simple overrobe, open at the front and oftentimes varying in length depending on the occasion. This particular overrrobe of Harry's came to the boy's ankles and its sleeves fit snugly over his arms, coming to a sharp point at the back of his hands; it was a green so dark as to be nearly black and ebon colored embroidered snakes adorned his collar and hem. Beneath the robe, the Slytherin boy wore black cotton trousers—a lighter material because of the humid summer months—and wore a slightly form-fitting shirt that matched the color of his eyes. Topping the ensemble off was a pair of salamander hide boots that shimmered with muted fire, spelled to keep Harry's feet cool in the summer and snugly warm in the winter.

Perhaps the drastic change, however, didn't come in the form of Harry's new wardrobe.

The boy had visited an Oculo specialist that had just taken up shop in Diagon Alley. The woman had done some diagnostic spells on Harry's eyes and, to his delight, had come to the conclusion that she would be able to repair his eyesight if he stuck to a strict regiment of potions. He had done as she had ordered, and…

There was no more need for his glasses.

The second change, though, was a change that Professor Snape was infinitely pleased with. The boy, always annoyed with how unmanageable his hair had always been, had stopped by a beauty supply store that—oddly enough—sold boy Muggle and wizard products. Harry had ended up buying a rather large supply of styling gel (enough to ensure that he would be able to last for most of the school year, and had taken to styling his hair in the morning. Instead of Draco's preferred slicked-back style, however, Harry had instead gone for the messier "bedhead" look. It was still a much more controlled look than Harry's previous every-which-way hair, and with how his bangs were styled and his hair was gelled into semi-spikes… he looked much more _wild_. Untamable. Punkish, like a young wizard rock star.

"I know, right?" Harry finally said after a moment, breaking the silence between the two friends, and smirking slyly at Draco's dropped-jaw look of astonishment.

"Wow," was the only thing that the Malfoy heir could actually say.

Perhaps the motto "clothes make the man" really _was_—at least, somewhat—partially true. It had certainly made a rather large difference on Harry, to the point where the Slytherin was nearly unrecognizable. By the time fall term came around, the rest of the school wouldn't know what hit them.

In answer, Draco couldn't help but smirk back.

* * *

The introduction of Harry Potter to Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy went, surprisingly, well. Professor Snape had given Harry a book on etiquette several weeks before he had seen Harry off via the fireplace in his own office, and he had given his Snake a Look while handing over the book, silently threatening and speaking without words, 'Do _NOT_ make a fool out of yourself, little dunderhead.'

Harry had studied the book intensely, learning of the Polite Society practices that his father had grown up performing as if it were all instinct. He had studied, he had memorized, he had learned, and he had practiced what he had read in the Great Hall during meal times.

And so the first time that Harry had met Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy, the boy had smiled warmly at the patriarch and had firmly shaken his hand before turning his attention to Draco's mother. The boy's smile had softened, and Harry had pressed a small kiss to the woman's elegant hand.

In answer, Mrs. Malfoy had smiled in approval and stepped forward, sliding her arm through the crook of Harry's elbow in the way that Hermione always did, and began to lead him away so that she might show him the room where he would be residing in over the next several days.

"Be welcome in our home, dear Mr. Potter."

* * *

It was in the middle of August that Harry met his new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. The man was rather wane, showing up to Hogwarts in threadbare clothes that had seen better days. Harry had watched the man moving through the Great Hall as he ate his lunch, keeping an eye on the conversation that the new professor was having with Headmaster Dumbledore.

In the middle of his discussion, though, the man paused and glanced around; Harry could see his nostrils flaring widely—much like a dog's did when it caught an interesting scent and wanted to investigate. Their eyes met, amber to emerald-green, and bone-deep _yearning_ filled the newcomer's gaze—so intense an emotion that Harry blinked, breaking the connection, and quickly glanced away.

By the time that the Snake felt comfortable enough to glance back up, the man and the Headmaster had left the Great Hall, presumably to continue their conversation in Dumbledore's office. Intriguing enough, Professor Snape watched the two of them leave, an interesting expression upon his face: it looked as if he had bit into a rather sour lemon.

_Odd_, Harry thought, drumming his fingers lightly on the table next to his plate. Catching himself, however, he straightened up slightly and reached for his fork and knife so that he might neatly cut into his roast.

* * *

_So what new spell did you learn from your book today?_

_Suppressio Nocturno._

_The Nightmare Curse?_

_Mmm. I thought that it was rather pointless to read about, though. I mean, what's the difference between it and Malus Sententia?_

_The Malicious Thought Curse? The difference is easy to make, Harry. The Nightmare Curse sucks your enemy into their own worst nightmare, forcing them to live it again and again until you cancel the curse. The Malicious Thought Curse, however, has a lot to do with intention and with how angry—malicious—you are towards the person you are casting it on. The worse your malicious intent, the worse the receiver will be plagued with horrible, horrible thoughts and fall into an all-consuming depression. The latter only happens, though, if you **mean** it._

_Like the Cruciatus Curse?_

_…yes. But where did you learn about that particular curse?_

_It was briefly mentioned in one of the chapters of Draco's book, but it didn't really go into much detail about it. Do you know the incantation, Tom?_

_I do. But if I am to tell it to you, you must promise never to use it when another person is around. It will send you immediately off to Azkaban, the wizarding prison. Not very many people remain sane for long in there. And doing the Cruciatus Curse means that you will be there until the day that you die._

_I promise that I'll be careful, Tom. You know that I always am._

_I know, I know. You've always reminded me a little bit of myself at your age._

_Except for the fact that I'm not an evil genius._

_Well, yes, obviously. But it's certainly all right, Harry. There's no way that you could ever possibly rank equal to me in my utter perfection. We geniuses, after all, are held to a much higher standard._

Harry rolled his eyes at that, knowing that Tom was partially teasing Harry—but, then again, also partially meant what he said. Shaking his head in bemusement at his friend, the boy continued writing. Y_eah, yeah. So, anyway, what's the incantation, Tom?_

_Crucio. You have to point your wand at the person, say the word, and you have to really want to cause them pain—the Cruciatus Curse is known as the Torture Curse for a reason, you know. If you don't mean it, nothing will happen._

_Wicked. Are there many curses like that that will automatically send you off to Azkaban?_

_Yes, Harry. The Cruciatus is part of a trio that's usually referred to as The Unforgivables. The Cruciatus Curse, the Imperius Curse (its incantation is Imperio, before you ask; it's kind of like Muggle mind control—you have absolute control over another person and you can make them do whatever you want), and the Killing Curse._

_That's the curse that Voldemort shot at me! Apparently, I'm the only one that's ever managed to survive it…_

_Would you like to know its incantation, Harry?_

_Do you really have to ask?_

_Avada Kedavra._

_

* * *

_

Later on that night, Harry lay awake in bed, lost in thought. After his conversation with Tom, the Slytherin had come to a realization that had been two years in the making. When the Sorting Hat had said that it was intention that mattered, Harry had automatically applied it to everything that he was studying.

He had forgotten, though, that the Sorting Hat had meant that intention was the important difference in being _great_ versus being _bad_. It had never made the same distinction in regards to magic—and it was the conversation regarding the Unforgivables that made Harry finally have to see that the Dark Arts (well, only _some_ of them, the boy thought with a scowl) were called the Dark Arts for a reason.

Controlling a person's mind.

Torturing a person.

Killing a person…

Harry was hard-pressed to find a reason or a situation in which any three of these particular curses could be considered "good" when the intention shifted. You put another person under mind control when you wanted something from them that only they were capable of giving to you. Torturing a person… Harry had heard stories where countries justified torture in order to gain information to save that country, but wasn't it still considered unethical…?

And then there was the Killing Curse.

Frown deepening, Harry rolled over onto his belly, deciding that he needed to consider these new implications. Perhaps his research and his studying really _had_ been wrong, and he shouldn't have gone into the Restricted Section at all in his first year…

But what did it also say about his friend Tom, the Tom that knew all of this dark magic?

Harry burrowed his face against the soft linen of his pillow, finally coming to the conclusion that he didn't want to deal with thinking about all of this tonight. He already had a headache from going over and over _and over_ this for the past two hours, and now he wanted nothing more than to put it aside to peruse later.

* * *

"Harry! Oh, Harry, I've missed you _so_ much!" a voice cried out happily and then, soon enough, the third-year Slytherin had his arms full of happy, hugging Gryffindor. Hermione tightened her hug for a moment longer before pulling away slightly to look up at her best friend. Seeing the differences, however, made her gape in surprise.

"Your hair! And you're not wearing your glasses! Did you get contacts, Harry?"

The boy laughed at that, giving Hermione an affectionate squeeze, and began to lead her towards the Great Hall for the Welcoming Feast. "No, no contacts, 'Mione. Professor Snape took me to Diagon Alley over the summer and I got the chance to see an eye specialist. They fixed everything! So now I don't need glasses. Wicked, huh?"

"Absolutely," Hermione said, grin wide and happy. "Now, tell me everything about your summer. Did you already finish your homework? You'd have better done so because everything is due on Monday…"

Letting his best friend rattle on, Harry answered in the appropriate pauses, just bemused over the fact that he had stayed _at school_ over the entire summer holidays with his _Potions professor_ as his current legal guardian—and Hermione wondered if he hadn't done his homework. Professor Snape had bullied him into doing it the first week of break (mostly because it meant more free time for Harry to come and help him in the lab, the boy knew full well).

* * *

"Oh, yeah—and my entire family got the chance to go to _Egypt_ this past summer. We were even all featured in the _Daily Prophet_. It was bloody awesome," Weasley bragged as he waved about a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. Seeing Harry and Hermione making their way past towards the inner parts of the castle, the redheaded Gryffindor raised his voice. "What'd you do this summer, Potter? Nothing, you say? Well, what'd you expect with a _greasy git_ as a guardian?"

He started laughing at that, and soon enough his friends, Thomas and Finnigan, joined in. Harry, on the other hand, didn't bother responding: instead, he just smiled and allowed that smile to deepen even further as Professor Snape placed his hands upon Weasley's shoulders.

"A greasy git, mmm? Twenty points from Gryffindor for insulting a teacher, twenty more for bad language, and you'll be joining me in detention tomorrow morning."

"Enjoy your detention with Professor Snape, Weasley. I have a feeling that you'll be helping him prepare Stinging Nettle venom for class on Wednesday," Harry said with a smirk as he and Hermione finally split so that each could go to their prospective House tables, immediately settling down next to Draco and easily making himself comfortable next to the Malfoy heir.

* * *

"Welcome to the Study of Ancient Runes, class. I will be your teacher for the next several years. My name is Professor Bathsheda Babbling, and you _will_ address me as Professor Babbling. Now, let's get started, shall we?"

Harry spared a sideways glance at Hermione who was currently bouncing up and down in her seat in excitement, eyes aglow with fervor and interest for one of her two newest courses. He gave his best friend a bemused smile and returned his attention to the front of the class.

"Before we get into the curriculum, I have a question that I would like to pose to all of you—to find out whether or not you all have opened the book over the summer." The last was said with a wry smile because, unfortunately, Professor Babbling was already aware that most students—unless absolutely forced to do so—wouldn't touch their schoolbooks during the course of the holidays. "Who can tell me the names of the three most common runic alphabets?"

Immediately, Hermione's hand shot up. Surprisingly, Harry's hand came up, as well, but at a much slower pace. Professor Babbling had heard stories from the other professors about Hermione Granger and was fully prepared that the girl would have an answer to every question that the woman would pose in class. Harry Potter, on the other hand… The boy usually tended to remain quiet in his classes, letting his friend answer most of the questions. The fact that he was already immediately participating… intriguing.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?" the Ancient Runes professor asked after a moment of silence.

Promptly, the boy began to answer: "The three most common runic alphabets are Elder Fuþark, Futhorc, and Younger Fuþark. Younger Fuþark is further broken down into long-branch runes, Rök runes, Hälsinge runes, Marcomannic runes, Medieval runes, and Dalecarlian runes. The earliest record that we—or Muggles—have of Runic use comes from around the year 150, though regular use in the Muggle world has continued on until the 1800s. For _our_ world, however—well, we already know that the story is rather different, right?"

Impressed with the thoroughness of the boy's answer, Professor Babbling's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "Very detailed, Mr. Potter. I know for a fact that _Ancient Runes Made Easy_ doesn't go that in depth; may I ask where you came across such information?"

Harry shrugged at that, bemused with everyone's wide-eyed surprise—Hermione included. "I got bored this past summer, and so I've been teaching myself Old English. The Anglo-Saxons used a lot of runes in their alphabet and so it kinda became necessary to learn what I could of runes on my own. Though, on that topic, I have a question, Professor."

"I… yes, Mr. Potter?" Professor Babbling asked in reply, head reeling. The boy was learning _Old English_? On his _own_?

"What's the difference between the rune 'Thurisaz' and the letter 'ð'? I've noticed that, at times, the Anglo-Saxons tended to interchange the two—sometimes within the same sentence; for example, þǣm mūðum dēofla—which then made me wonder…" Continuing on, voice bright and interested in the subject matter that he was discussing, Bathsheda Babbling tried her very best to keep her jaw from dropping onto the floor.

For the first time in her tenure as a professor, she considered bumping a first-year Ancient Runes student to a higher level.

* * *

_Þat kann ek it tolfta,_  
_ef ek sé á tré uppi_  
_váfa virgilná:_  
_svá ek ríst ok í rúnum fák,_  
_at sá gengr gumi_  
_ok mælir við mik._

Harry stared at the stanza, once more lightly tapping at his mouth with the feathered tip of his quill; he had spent the last several weeks of his summer going over the stanza that he had found in the poem _Hávamál_; Tom had been strangely excited when Harry had mentioned that he intended to take Ancient Runes, and he had been the one to suggest that the boy study Old English on the side, as well. It had already come in handy—the Slytherin had found his first day of classes rather boring, though Professor Babbling's explanation in reply to his question had been rather enlightening—and yet…

It all, in the end, came down to this stanza—or so Tom had said.

"I know a twelfth one if I see, up in a tree, a dangling corpse in a noose: I can so carve and color the runes, that the man walks and talks with me…" the boy murmured aloud. Was it truly possible that one could use runes to bring back the dead? Could those very same runes be switched in their purpose so that they might kill instead of bringing a corpse back to true life? Or...

…or could those runes be used to grant immortality?


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Harry settled in the corner of Slytherin's private library, staring down with a thoughtful expression at the most recent copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that was spread over the majority of his lap. _**NOTORIOUS KILLER, SIRIUS BLACK, SPOTTED IN HOGSMEADE – MURDERER INTENT UPON THE BOY-WHO-LIVED?**_ ran the headline, and the raven-haired boy tapped idly at his thigh with the index finger of his right hand. Most of what the _Daily Prophet_ wrote was absolute tripe, but…

Next to Harry's thigh lay the book about his parents and their sacrifice for him, most of the chapters focused upon the events surrounding how Harry had become the "Boy Savior." It was the dates, however, that concerned Harry the most.

Voldemort had come to Godric's Hollow on Halloween.

He had been deposited at the Dursleys' doorstep later on that same evening.

Sirius Black had confronted one Peter Pettigrew several days after Harry had been taken away to his new "home." Peter Pettigrew had fought off Black, joining twelve Muggles in death.

And yet…

Things didn't add up.

There was something odd about how events had played out, something fishy and peculiar that Harry couldn't yet narrow down. It was there, just barely out of reach, and teased him with the fact that he hadn't yet been able to figure out what it was that had bothered him so much about the week that followed his parents' death. The book specifically mentioned that Sirius Black was—much to Harry's astonishment when he had first read it—the boy's legal godfather. Wouldn't a godfather be the one to raise him after his parents' deaths? Why, then, had Dumbledore sent Harry away to Aunt Petunia's? He had had family, wizarding family, that would have taken care of him and prepared him for being introduced to the world at large. It would have been so much better to have stayed with Sirius Black than to have been sent to the Dursleys the way that he had been.

It was strange, too, that instead of caring for the son of the man that he had viewed, as the book was quick to point out, "as a brother"—why did Sirius Black instead go immediately from the scene of carnage to track down Pettigrew? Why, too, had Black been sentenced to Azkaban without a trial when all of the other Death Eaters—suspected or otherwise—had been given trials?

_Things didn't add up._

And, thus, Harry was left with question after question and with no answer to any of his ponderings in sight. He wondered, though, considered various theories; and, in his devious little Slytherin mind—a mind trained by the care given to him at the Dursleys'—he began to consider the _why_ of things: What motive could Sirius Black have had that would have made him go after Peter Pettigrew instead of caring for Harry himself?

The theories multiplied, one prevalent over the others, but there was nothing that Harry could do to test out those various hypotheses.

It was frustrating, though. No matter how hard Harry tried otherwise, two plus two kept on adding up to five. So… why? _Why?_

_

* * *

_

It should have been a normal night for Harry, the boy sprawled out over one of the sofas in the Common Room; he occasionally turned a page or two from the book in his hands, allowing those around him to believe that he was studying for the Transfiguration exam that was soon coming up.

In actuality, the boy was listening in on the conversations around him, had stopped paying attention to his text quite some time ago. Instead, he listened in on various conversations from all levels that were taking place around him—some of the children discussing things that their parents had spoken to them about in letters, other conversations on topics that they knew that their peers would understand and relate to.

What Harry took the time to finally _hear_ was beginning to disturb him.

* * *

Professor Lupin never looked away from Harry during class periods. The older man would lecture at the front of the classroom—sometimes giving out practicals, something that was completely new to the students since the previous two professors had been rather pathetic in their teach standards—but… it didn't matter what they did or where Harry sat or stood and looked.

The Defense professor was always, _always_ watching him with those eerie amber eyes.

It made the Slytherin uncomfortable, and—not for the first time—he wondered to himself if it was possible to sense (smell?) the magic that he still sometimes performed, though never on another person anymore. Still… Harry worried. What disturbed the young Slytherin the most, however, was the feral amount of _yearning_ that still remained within those amber eyes, reminding Harry so much of the first time that they had seen each other that summer.

And Professor Lupin continued to watch him with a hungry, intent gaze.

* * *

c. The second- and third-person singular present indicative retain the **h** because after the occurrence of palatal umlaut, the vowel of the inflectional endings **–ist** and **–iþ** disappeared. As a consequence of this, the **h** was no longer intervocalic and accordingly was retained: **flēohist – flīehst – flīhst**; **flēohiþ – flīehþ – flīhþ**.

d. The present plural indicative and subjunctive and the imperative plural had the **h** between vowels. It disappeared, and in all these forms the vowel of the inflectional ending was absorbed: **flēohaþ – flēoþ**; **flēohen – flēon**.*

Harry stared at the words for a long, long time before shaking his head and giving up for the night. Old English was difficult enough to learn—and, to add insult to injury, was full of silly, stupid little rules that one just had to memorize because—rarely, anyway—things followed a set pattern. He didn't think that he'd be able to handle the conjugation of contract verbs tonight. Not when staring at the text in his book made him feel like his brain was melting out of his ears.

How Tom was able to actually understand all of this was a complete and utter mystery. But, then again, as the other boy enjoyed bragging… he was a genius. And Harry was not. The boy in question just shook his head at the train of his thoughts, setting the textbook aside and swallowing the temptation to chuck it across the room.

* * *

"I'm absolutely _certain_, Ronald, that Crookshanks didn't have anything to do with Scabbers' disappearance!" came an angry voice from the entrance of the Great Hall—an angry voice that Harry would have recognized anywhere. Sensing that Hermione may have been in need of "back-up," the green-eyed boy lengthened his stride as the girl continued on with her irritated tirade. "Crookshanks spends most of his time outside, anyway! The fact that you're implying that it was _my_ cat that might have done something to _your_ rat is absolutely infuriating!"

"Well, go on! What else did you expect," Weasley snapped back and, rounding a corner, Harry could see that the redhead's face was flushed with fury. "You're always hanging around with that evil _Potter_—the Potter that has it out for me, he has!—and then my rat goes missing! Of course it was _you two_ that done it!"

"Did you ever think, Ronald Weasley?" Hermione scowled as she placed her hands upon her hips and glared up at the taller boy who was currently flanked on both sides by Thomas and Finnigan. "There are loads other Gryffindors who have cats as their familiars—cats who _do_ regularly stay in the Tower! The fact that you immediately assume that this is my fault is not only insulting, but it's also disgusting!"

Weasley opened his mouth to retort, just as angrily, but his face twisted into an expression of fear and loathing as Harry strode up to stand by Hermione's side. Gently, he rested his hand upon the feminine curve of her shoulder: his support silent, though steady.

Deciding that she had had enough of Weasley's foolishness, Hermione scowled at the ginger once more before finally accompanying Harry to breakfast. Before they split to head off to their own individual Tables, she reached out and twined their hands together, giving Harry's an affectionate, grateful squeeze.

No words passed between the two friends.

But, then again, no words were really needed.

* * *

_Haaaaarry… wake up, Haaaarry…_

The silhouette draped itself over him, hovering possessive as the voice—ever so deliciously _Dark_—quietly whispered in the shell of the boy's ear. It was past two in the morning on a Friday night, and Harry sleepily lifted his lashes—only to be confronted by the surprised gaze of a very wanted Azkaban escapee.

In a flash, Harry wand was out from beneath his pillow and the boy himself was across the bed, darting away with a quickness spurred by years of attempting to avoid Uncle Vernon's fists.

Instead of the accusations that Sirius had originally thought that the boy would snarl, Harry instead stared at him with unnerving eyes, eyes that were incredibly flat and hard—heartbreaking to see Lily's child capable of having those eyes.

"_Show me your left forearm_," the boy hissed and kept his wand pointed at the convict. Eyes widening in shock at the order, Sirius Black carefully reached down to the tattered remnants of his sleeve to slowly pull the cloth away.

And bared skin that was clean of the Dark Mark.

* * *

Structurally, alliteration binds two verses to compose a poetic line.

Rhythmically, at least two of the syllables which carry a principal stress in a _line_ (one in each _verse_) alliterate. In the initial verse of a line (the a-verse, or on-verse) alliteration may fall on one (usually the first) of the principally stressed syllables or on two such syllables, whereas in the second verse (the b-verse, or off-verse) alliteration occurs only on the first principally stressed syllable. Generally, then, the first principally stressed syllable of the second verse will show the alliterative sound which unites the line.

_Sample Lines_  
1. Ða cwom wundorlicu wiht – ofer wealles hrof  
2. geond þas wundorworuld – wide dreogan  
3. geond þisne middangeard – mongum to frofre*

Harry stared at the sample lines for just a moment before, once again, putting the Old English textbook aside to pull out _Ancient Runes Made Easy_. Who knew that he'd actually prefer _runes_ to actual _text_? It went without saying, though, that the runes were much, much easier.

Happily, the boy went about translating the famous Anglo-Saxon rune poem instead.

_**Feo**__h byþ frofur fira gehwylcum;  
sceal ðeah manna gehwylc miclun hyt dælan  
gif he wile for drihtne domes hleotan.**  
Ur**__ byþ anmod ond oferhyrned,  
felafrecne deor, feohteþ mid hornum  
mære morstapa; þæt is modig wuht.**  
Ðorn**__ byþ ðearle scearp; ðegna gehwylcum  
anfeng ys yfyl, ungemetum reþe  
manna gehwelcum, ðe him mid resteð…_

It was actually a relief to actually just write the runes out where the words were originally, then explaining their meanings in the context of the poem itself. Out of all of the stanzas related to each letter, Harry's favorite was always for Ðorn, **þ**. 'Thorn bites dearly sharp…' and Harry couldn't help the sideways glance at Tom's diary at that.

* * *

_Tom, why do you know so much Dark magic?_

_I studied it, of course._

…_why?_

_To protect myself._

_From what?_

_I grew up in a Muggle orphanage, Harry. They didn't understand what I was and, thus, they oftentimes lashed out at me in fear._

_So you struck back? You used magic against them?_

_Yes. It's only fair, after all. Right?_

_Maybe…_

_Don't think too hard about it, Harry. They were only Muggles._

_

* * *

_

"Peter Pettigrew…" Sirius Black hissed out, eyes dark and empty—filled with hate as he told the story, the _truth_, to his godson. "We had switched Secret-Keepers at the last minute. James wanted to switch from me to Wormtail because he thought that it was better to use a decoy—who'd have thought of poor, sniveling, _weak_ little Peter as the Potters' Secret-Keeper?" The last was said with a sneer, and Sirius' hands curled into tight claws before he finally allowed himself to continue. "No one suspected, though, that it was Pettigrew who had betrayed us all. Remus was the one that we had looked upon with distrust and suspicion—even _I_ had thought the worst of one of my best friends."

"But it was Peter Pettigrew who was the one that had actually betrayed my parents," Harry said, reconfirming Sirius' earlier words. The boy's gaze was intent upon his godfather's thin, malnourished frame, and the escapee hissed his fury, his confirmation.

"Why didn't the Headmaster ask that you be given a trial? Been given Veritaserum to make sure that you had—or hadn't, truly—been the one to betray my parents to Voldemort? Hell, why didn't they even just take a look at your arm? You don't carry the Mark, and it would have been a simple enough thing to check!"

Sirius smiled then, and it was twisted enough that a shiver of trepidation went up Harry's spine. "Dumbledore asked that I be sent immediately to Azkaban. He didn't want me tried, didn't want the chance that I be given truth serum. No one was allowed to speak to me until I was safely holed away up in Azkaban—and, when I did have visitors, they were only allowed to speak to me through a slot in the door."

"But _why_ did he do all of this?" Harry asked, voice cracking slightly at the last word.

Sirius had no comforting answer for Harry, and so the broken man instead remained silent for several long moments. Eventually, however, he reached out to wrap his fingers tight enough to bruise around Harry's wrist. "Harry," the man began, voice husky with a hungry desire. "Harry, you must bring me Weasley's pet rat. It's Peter Pettigrew in his animagus form. I recognized him. Bring him to me. Please, Harry. Please. Please do this for me."

Harry met Sirius' crazed gaze, hand coming across their bodies to mirror the man's hold upon him. "So that you can kill him for what he's done?" the boy asked frankly, gaze flat and cold as he considered his godfather's request—and the ramifications that would occur if he ended up doing as the elder had asked.

"Yes. Oh, yes," Sirius breathed.

"…all right."

* * *

The day that Harry lost one of his best friends was a bright, sunny March day.

It was warm enough that the Slytherin had headed down to the Black Lake once classes had finished for the day. Harry's bookbag was slung comfortably over a shoulder, the main compartment swinging idly to and fro against his thigh—filled with that day's classes' texts.

The library had begun to feel stifling after all of the winter months that the boy and Hermione—joined sometimes by a Malfoy heir who spent a large portion of the time sneering snootily at Hermione than spending the time actually studying—had remained cooped up in the large room, and so… why not work on a bit of his homework outside, while the nice weather still held?

Settling down on a rock outcropping not far from the Whomping Willow, the Slytherin third year reached down into his bag to pull out his Potions textbook but, instead, brushed his fingers against Tom's diary.

Harry paused for a moment, considering his options. He could actually work on his essays, as he had originally intended to, or… he could put them off for a while longer and instead converse with the spirit that inhabited the diary. Harry had taken to talking to Tom less and less, instead considering many of the things that the other… boy?... had spoken to him about over the course of a year and a half.

Tom had noticed some of his reluctance, though, and asked Harry if he had said something that had hurt the boy's feelings.

The other hadn't hurt Harry's feelings, no—how could Tom have when Harry felt comfortable with talking about many things with him?—but Harry was beginning to wonder if many of the things that Tom had spoken of were _truly_ acceptable. They had seemed all right in the beginning, when Harry was still ecstatic over finding "someone" else to talk to, in making a friend other than Hermione. A _guy_ friend, a friend who had been in Slytherin, who understood how the House politics worked. A friend who understood Harry's instinctive, bone-deep curiosity about the Dark Arts—a friend that had encouraged him to look even further in that branch of magic.

But Harry was beginning to wonder if he hadn't perhaps gotten carried away with things.

_Hello, Tom_, the boy wrote, quirking a small smile at how immediate the other's response was, Tom's elegant scrawl filling the page soon after Harry had finished writing the other's name.

_Harry? Where have you been? I've been worried about you! You didn't get in trouble or get caught because I told you about that one spell the last time that we talked?_

_No, no. I haven't been getting in trouble. Surprisingly enough, I've had less detentions this year than the previous two! So… no, I haven't been in trouble. I've been thinking about some of the stuff that we've talked about, though._

_Really? Like what?_

_Well… I've been thinking a lot about the Dark Arts lately, actually._ Here, the boy paused for a moment and nibbled on his quill before finally continuing. _You know, I used to think that what the Sorting Hat told me—about intention—also applied to magic. But… it doesn't, not really. It applies to how you plan on __**using **__magic… but the more that I've thought about things, the more that I've come to realize that there really __**are**__ different branches of magic—Dark, Light, and Gray. Intent doesn't really have anything to do with them. They're just the way that they are, and it's the wizard or witch who chooses to use them. And… well… And that Dark magic does tend to be a bit… __**meaner**__. Than the other two branches. I started really thinking about all of these things after our talk on the Unforgivables._

_And what did you realize, Harry…?_

_Well… what moral justification is there in using the Killing Curse? Or the Cruciatus Curse? There doesn't really seem to be any other justification in using either of those two spells other than the desire to hurt someone—to torture them and force them to experience immeasurable pain, or to __**just take their life**__. It's a choice that you have to make—the choice that you want to do this to someone. That you want to kill someone. Or hurt them as much as you can… You said before that the only way that the Unforgivables work is if you really, really __**mean**__ it. What does it say about a person who embraces the idea of causing another human being that much pain…?_

_I've used Cruciatus, Harry. I've used the Killing Curse._

_But __**why**__, Tom?_

_Because I hated them. Because they didn't understand me, because they left me to rot in an orphanage until I got my Hogwarts letter—and then every summer afterwards. Because I was looked down upon for my blood, because they all thought themselves better than me. Because they __**hurt**__—_

"Mr. Potter?"

Harry flinched in surprise, abruptly snapping the diary shut as he looked up into the twinkling eyes of Headmaster Dumbledore. "Oh! H-Hello, Headmaster," the boy greeted, smile shaky. "You startled me!"

"Did I? I'm very sorry for doing so, my dear boy. I was just taking my customary walk around the lake when I saw you sitting here and thought that I might join you…?

"Of course, sir. Here, let me move my things out of the way so that I can make room for you, Headmaster," Harry began promptly, picking up his bookbag to place on the ground at the foot of the rock formation. The boy was just about to slide Tom's diary into the bag, as well, but stilled immediately when he saw the suddenly sharp look that came into the Headmaster's gaze.

"That's an incredibly Dark artifact, my boy. Incredibly Dark; it's been created with soul magic," the elderly man began, voice soft but dangerously hard. Harry continued to remain still, frozen as a rabbit did once spotted by a predator. "Hand it to me, Mr. Potter."

"It's not Dark, sir. You must be mistaken, Headmaster. I mean, it's just a silly little toy that my friend Tom and I created together—it's a way that we can talk to one another when he's away at a different school—"

But Dumbledore's eyes had turned flinty when Harry had mentioned the name "Tom." Without asking again, the Headmaster instead reached across the space separating the two of them and promptly plucked the diary from Harry's hands. It took all but a moment to open the book and see the name that was scrawled in the interior, and Dumbledore's expression hardened further.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Mr. Potter. I had thought you intelligent enough to report a finding such as this once you had originally come across it. And then lying about the origins of this Dark artifact…? One hundred and fifty points from Slytherin, Mr. Potter."

The Headmaster began to make his way back towards the castle, diary held carefully in his hands. Harry watched the old man leave, eyes tracking the leatherbound book with greedy eyes; Harry's hand clutched over his aching heart and, for the first time since he was four years old, felt the prickling of tears.

Tom had been taken from him.

For the very first time, his scar began to burn.

* * *

Just as the locative case was approaching extinction in classical Latin, so was the instrumental in Old English. It was indistinguishable in form from the dative in the plural of nouns, pronouns, articles, and adjectives, and in the feminine singular as well. Its distinctiveness in form was virtually confined to the masculine and neuter singular of the article and strong adjective—*

Harry closed his eyes and gently put the textbook aside.

He didn't think that he could handle studying the old language just yet, not with Tom gone so recently. The diary's loss still produced an ache in his chest, an empty feeling in his belly. While he still had Hermione—and Draco, though he'd never really be able to trust the other Slytherin in the way that he trusted Hermione—Tom had… Tom had been different. He had _understood_ Harry in so many ways, understood the secret and shameful things that the green-eyed teenager would have never willingly told another soul. Tom, too, had come from a similar situation; they _connected_ so very often. And, in so many other circumstances, they realized that they would never really be able to see eye-to-eye.

But the understanding, when it had come…

Harry missed his friend.

* * *

Harry awkwardly patted Hermione's back as the girl sobbed desperately into his shoulder. It was the end of exams week and, unfortunately for the overly stressed Gryffindor, their Ancient Runes final had been the last test that they had had to tackle. All had been going relatively well until…

"Harry! It was such a foolish mistake!"

"It's all right, 'Mione. It was just one mistake, and I'm sure that you got all of the other answers correct…" the boy soothed, tense and uncomfortable and, like most males, not knowing what to do to calm the frantically upset girl. "I mean, anyone could have mixed up Ehwaz and Eihwaz."

"But they don't look anything alike!" the girl wailed, crying that much harder. "They don't mean the same thing! How could I have been so _stupid_ as to make such an elementary mistake…?"

"Hermione, really. It's really, really okay. I'm sure that you still got an 'O' on the exam. You're the brightest witch of our age, after all."

The sobbing paused for a moment and then, eyes tear-streaked and lashes clumping together, the girl looked up and blinked owlishly in surprise at her best friend. "…really…? You really think that, Harry?"

Harry blinked back, this time in confusion. "Well… yeah."

"Oh, Harry!" Hermione cried out, launching herself back at the boy, giving him the tightest hug possible. "Thank you for trying so much to cheer me up," she whispered, embarrassed to once more look up and meet Harry's gaze. "Thank you so much for being my best friend, Harry."

Harry smiled crookedly at that and reached up, patting the back of Hermione's head and absently shaking his head in bemusement. _Girls_… he'd never understand them. Ever.

* * *

Nu we sculon herigean | heofonrices weard,  
meotodes meahte | ond his modgeþanc,  
weorc wuldorfæder, | swa he wundra gehwæs,  
ece drihten, | or onstealde**.**  
He ærest sceop | eorðan bearnum  
heofon to hrofe, | halig scyppend;  
þa middangeard | moncynnes weard,  
ece drihten, | æfter teode  
firum foldan, | frea ælmihtig**.**

_Now we must praise | the Protector of the heavenly kingdom,  
the might of the Measurer | and His mind's purpose,  
the work of the Glory-Father, | as He for each of the wonders,  
the eternal Lord, | established a beginning,  
He shaped first | for the sons of the Earth  
heaven as a roof, | the Holy Maker;  
then the Middle-World, | mankind's Guardian,  
the eternal Lord, | made afterwards,  
solid earth for men, | the Almighty Lord._

Harry finished his translation of _Cædmon's Hymn_, finally closing his eyes and leaning forward to rest his forehead against the edge of his book. It had… been a rather long day, and the ache in his chest hadn't yet gone away—not even weeks after Dumbledore had taken the diary from him.

He hadn't wanted to continue learning Old English, hadn't wanted to continue translating dead verses, hadn't wanted to glance at the books upon books of prophecies and spells that dealt with runes—all books that he had found in Slytherin's library with the help of Grendel.

"I don't want to do this anymore," Harry whispered quietly as tears once more pricked at the corners of his eyes. And yet… and yet. He took several deep breaths, filling his lungs and expanding his chest, forcing himself to press upon that throbbing sense of loss—and then lifted up from where he had been resting and once more reached out to pick up another book.

* * *

"_Homenum Revelio!_" Professor Lupin and Sirius both roared as the little rat viciously bit at the meat of Harry's thumb, lunging out of the boy's hand as he cried out in sudden pain. It began to scurry away, but one of the two men's spells had hit him—and, soon enough, a dirty, fat little man huddled by the trunk of a tree, quivering in abject terror as he stared up at the Hogwarts professor and the Azkaban escapee.

His one-time friends.

"Remus! Sirius!" he cried as he walked on his knees towards the two who stood at Harry's sides. "My dearest friends! It's been such a very—very—long time since I have seen you last…! And sweet, kind Harry, with your mother's eyes… kind smile…"

Harry smiled at that before his foot lashed out, kicking Pettigrew in the belly and knocking the coward over. "Don't speak of my parents, you filthy bastard," the boy said, voice sweet—but the emotions roiling about in his eyes were terrifying. Seeing them, Pettigrew whimpered in fear. "Did you know, Wormtail, that Professor Lupin and Sirius both gave me permission to decide your fate? Weeks ago, they gave the verdict up to me. For weeks, days at a time—I daydreamed about it, sometimes, in class—I considered what I wanted to do to you for your betrayal. For putting Professor Lupin in _exile_, my godfather in _prison_, and my parents _dead_: and I thought of the perfect punishment for a miserable little rat like you."

"S-s-sweet, s-sweet Harry…" Pettigrew stuttered out, crawling down so that he might pet Harry's trousers, frantic and terrified of what it was that James' son would next say.

"You're going to be Kissed, Wormtail," Harry said, jerking his leg from the sniveling man's grip and stepping back so that he was slightly behind Professor Lupin and Sirius' larger bulk. "I thought that you should suffer the fate that you would have left Sirius to. Karma's a bitch, isn't it?"

Pettigrew wept.

* * *

The moon rose up into the sky, as full and as round as a pregnant woman's belly.

* * *

The sight of Peter Pettigrew managing to escape Professor Lupin's hold upon the little rat—running away, hiding within the foliage of the Forbidden Forest was a memory, Harry knew, that would fill him with fury for the rest of his life. The little bastard had gotten away, and the hopes of getting Sirius cleared were now dwindling away into nothing. It had all depended upon Pettigrew, upon his being brought in to the Aurors.

But he had escaped. _Again._

Harry screamed in rage and—in hindsight—perhaps that wasn't the best thing to have done since the transformed Professor Lupin paused in his fight with the giant black dog to direct his attention to his student. The werewolf snarled hungrily and left Sirius alone, not that the ex-convict could do much in answer since he was injured and stumbling down a ravine that led to the edge of the Black Lake.

Before he could go and check on his godfather, though, Harry knew that first he had to deal with his currently furry Defense professor. Werewolf and thirteen year-old boy stared at one another for a moment that drew itself out, each waiting for the other to move before reacting. In his time in Slytherin, however, the Potter heir had learned patience—and he made himself very, very still.

It was the werewolf who moved first.

"Oh, _fuck_," Harry hissed out as he turned sharply to _run_. He could hear the panting breaths of the creature, right on his heels, and since he didn't want to have a monthly affliction, the boy somehow managed to put on an extra burst of speed all while Zambia hissed her encouragements. As he neared a giant tree that bordered the edge of the Forbidden Forest, however, Harry got a brilliant plan: yanking his wand out of its wrist holster, he waved it over himself in the familiar pattern learned in first year and shouted out, "_Wingardium Leviosa_!"

The boy shot up into the air, levitating high above the werewolf's reach as Harry flew amongst the branches of the tree that he had been aiming for. He clung tightly to one of the limbs high up, glancing down at the prowling werewolf at the base of the tree far, far below him. It looked up at the now-safe boy, growling angrily at the loss of its prey.

"Yeah, well. I would have given you a stomach ache, anyway," Harry muttered to himself before climbing higher, most definitely wanting to be as high up as possible—and, therefore, as far away from the still-loose werewolf as humanly capable of being.

As Harry climbed higher, however, a familiar chill settled into his bones, and he shivered as the familiar scream of his mother echoed in his ears, as distant as a phantom's touch. He chafed his hands over his upper arms, glancing up as he saw dozens and dozens of Dementors flying through the air. There were so many, groups thick enough to blot out the stars high above in the sky.

Flying towards the Black Lake.

"Oh, _no_," Harry whispered, green eyes going wide in horror. "_No_," he repeated before edging further out onto the tree branch, hoping that he wouldn't see what he knew, deep inside, that he _would_. The Dementors descended en masse, swooping and hovering temporarily over Sirius' still form. Over and over and over again, making their way closer, lingering longer over the Azkaban escapee.

With the hundreds of Dementors circling his godfather like a pack of wolves, it didn't take long before Harry saw a pale light ease up from Sirius' body, glowing bright enough that Harry had to bring a hand up to shade his eyes—though he never looked away, heart caught in his throat.

_Please, please, __**please**__—don't let this happen. Let him wake up. Let him get away. __**Please**__, Sirirus, __**wake up**__! Run away, far away! Don't look back! Just please get away from them all! They'll—_

The light winked out.

"_NOOOOOOOOOOO!_" the boy screamed as one of the few remaining links back to his parents left him, died in such a stupid, petty way that _shouldn't have happened_. Sirius had been innocent, had never been a Death Eater, had never even been given a trial before being tossed in Azkaban—and had rotted in there for so many years, left alone to die of despair. An innocent man had just had his soul taken from him; the man that Harry was beginning to know as his godfather had left him.

It hadn't been fair!

_It hadn't been fair!_

Screams still coming from his mouth, the sounds raw and broken, Harry pounded angrily at the bark beneath his hands. So much, _so very much_, he wanted to hurt someone, to make them feel what coursed through his body, to make them feel the empty loneliness that one felt as the last connection to _family_ died. To his past, to the closeness that he could have had with a "parent," the one that his parents would have given him over to.

Where was justice? Where was the sense of _balance_, that bad actions were supposed to be punished by divine retribution? Where was the acknowledgment of fairness, the realization that things shouldn't have gone a certain way—that some people got dealt a shitty hand, and that there should have been some sort of prize at the very end. The universe was skewed—tilted towards favoring his misery, of taking and taking and taking and _taking_ from him. Normalcy, family, friends, a connection and an acknowledgement of _understanding_… The knowledge that, somewhere, there was someone similar enough to him to be able to relate, to not expect him to explain himself because those words would have been unnecessary. Fate had taken two of those people from Harry.

And he was _so tired_ of always being forced to give up what mattered to him.

"If I ever see him again, _I'll kill him_ for you, Sirius," Harry vowed with eyes closed and forehead pressed roughly against the bark of the tree branch. He rubbed his face roughly against the wood, wanting to hurt himself—wanting to seal his promise with blood. It seemed fitting, seemed appropriate—and his heart and the scar upon his forehead throbbed, throbbed, _**throbbed**_.

He'd make them pay.

He'd make them _all_ pay.

**- End Year 3 -**

**

* * *

**

_Author's Note:_ Aaaaand there's the end of years one through three, up sooner than I had expected—you all lucked out due to the fact that my neighbor snores loud enough that I can hear him two floors above his actual apartment. Guh. OTL .. Anyway, moving on from my current woes! Next chapter will deal with the summer between three and four—and be the actual start of the story. Thank you all for sticking with me thus far! I'm really glad that you all seem to be enjoying the ride~ And as for brightsun89 because I _know_ that I'm going to be throttled for this… ;_; I'm sorry, little sister. You told me not to, but… I HAD TO DO IT. *hides from wrath*

Finally, on a side note, I just wanted to say that reviewers 100, 500, and 1,000 may request a short story from me~ :)

* Old English: Language and Literature, Albert H. Marckwardt and James L. Rosier  
- - aka; Feel my pain. :|


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's Note:_ Thank you once more for all of the reviews—the critiques, the encouragement, and the comments as to what you all have been enjoying. I've been taking all feedback into account, and I hope that I will be able to produce a story that most people can enjoy. :) Thank you all! Also, on just a side note, starting from this chapter onwards, updates will be coming much more slowly (I went out and bought earplugs to battle against the neighbor's snoring~ ;D).

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHT  
- Widderschynnes -**

_With Mars as its ruling planet, the Tower is a card about war, a war between the structures of lies and the lightning flash of truth. The Tower stands for false concepts and institutions that we take for real. No card scares a Tarot reader like the Tower; it is however one of the clearest cards when it comes to meaning. False structures, false institutions, false beliefs are going to come tumbling down, suddenly, violently, and all at once. What's important to remember as a Tarot reader is that the one you're reading for likely does not know that something is false. Not yet. To the contrary, they probably believe that their lover is being faithful, that their religious beliefs are true and right, that there are no problems in their family structure, that everything is fine at work—but, in actuality, there is falsehood within their life. However, what's most important to remember is that the tearing down of this structure, however painful, makes room for something new to be built. Nothing built on a lie, on falsehoods, can remain standing for long. Better to tear it all down and rebuild on the truth. It is not going to be pleasant or painless or easy, but it will be for the best.*_

_

* * *

_

Harry hated the bruised look in his eyes.

No matter how hard he had tried to be rid of it since That Night, the expression had still lingered—weeks, now, and the boy had taken to avoiding mirrors for as long as possible. He was now capable of styling his hair by touch and feel alone, knew how to present himself to his best ability, and Harry sometimes thought to himself that he'd rather not have to use a mirror ever again for the rest of his life if it meant avoiding his reflection.

His thoughts oftentimes wandered along this track as he helped Professor Snape in the Potions lab; he was silent for the most part, efficiently doing as the older man asked—fetch this, chop that, sieve these and make sure not to get any of the remnants on your skin. The orders were simple, easy to follow, and Harry sometimes wondered if Professor Snape did it on purpose.

The guesses, however, came to a halt two days after Harry had begun to help the Head of Slytherin in his private lab, and the realization came in a most startling way. The dark-eyed man had paused in his ministrations, and it was obvious to anyone who looked upon the hunched figure that he was torn in doing—or not doing?—something. The pinched look around his eyes gave truth to the matter: whatever it was that Professor Snape was weighing, it was not something that he considered pleasant.

Finally, though, the Head spoke, voice stalling on certain words and low enough in tone that Harry, at times, had to strain to be able to understand the professor. "I have heard about your… godfather," the usually unsympathetic man began, mouth pursed. "I am… sorry… for your loss, Mr. Potter."

Harry had looked up at that moment, meeting Professor Snape's gaze. They had remained silent, the lack of sound stretching on to several drawn-out minutes before the Potter heir finally inclined his head, acknowledging the condolences. "Thank you, sir."

The boy turned away from the man afterwards, letting both his lashes and gaze lower so that he could give his full attention to extracting the jovi seeds from their thick, prickly pods. His hands were, understandably, rather unsteady for the first several attempts but Harry soon enough got himself under control and the constant 'plop; plop; plop' of seeds falling into the copper jar filled the large dungeon room.

As he continued the mindless work, relying on muscle memory to repeat each gesture without truly having to focus on it, the boy wondered at the fact that it was only his Head of House who had offered up his sympathies. It was more than apparent that those sympathies had cost Professor Snape in pride and, knowing full well how sharply Slytherins clung to their pride, Harry cherished the words all the more for it.

Eventually, though, the boy had to disrupt the quiet. He had received an owl from Draco several days before with an invitation for Harry to once more come and spend a week with him and his family at Malfoy Manor. The green-eyed Slytherin had honestly thought to politely refuse the invitation, but the emptiness of the castle was beginning to stir something within him and Harry knew that he should leave for a bit before it was too late.

Too late for what, the boy didn't know.

But the feeling still remained.

"Professor…" Harry began, watching from the corner of his eyes as the Potions Master paused in his work, hands stilling to indicate that he was listening to his Snake. "Draco sent me an invitation once more to come and visit Malfoy Manor sometime during the holiday. I was wondering if you would find that acceptable."

"Did you enjoy your last visit with them, Mr. Potter?" Professor Snape asked, curiosity lacing his voice as he finally set aside his sharp tools; he turned then, clasping his hands over his middle so that he might give Harry his full attention.

"I did," Harry began, first answer simple and succinct. His hand hovered momentarily over the jar, fist full of seeds, and he slowly uncurled his fingers one by one to allow them to fall down to join their brethren, the tinkling sound of their hitting the metal of the pot almost whimsical in the tension that filled the lab. "Malfoy Manor is rather beautiful, and Draco's mum is very kind. She welcomed me back to their home whenever I felt like visiting. And Draco's father is…"

Here, Harry paused for a moment, weighing his words and tossing certain ones out but keeping others—thinking, as Professor Snape always advised his Snakes, before he finally spoke. "Draco's father is very aristocratic and seems rather old-fashioned because of it. He's always giving Draco advice and arranging lessons and dinners and parties with other families. The last time that I visited, Draco was expected to read a rather large stack of books before returning to school."

"One would think that Mr. Malfoy puts too much on Draco's shoulders," Professor Snape commented idly, making sure that his tone gave nothing of his thoughts away.

At that, Harry smirked slightly. "Or you could also say that Mr. Malfoy sees Draco's inner potential and just wants to give him the very best possible to ensure that his son succeeds." At the last word, Harry looked up and pinned his Head with a very cynical, wry gaze. "Personally, I'd rather have a family that offers and expects too much than a family that expects nothing at all."

Professor Snape lowered his eyes at that, mouth twisting at the familiar taste of private childhood memories that lingered like ash upon the tip of his tongue. "Indeed, Mr. Potter. Indeed."

The two Slytherins went back to working, both silent as they continued on with their tasks. It wasn't until Professor Snape was nearly done with his preparations that he once more turned his attention back to Harry Potter. The dour man dusted off his hands, clearing his voice softly to again catch his student's attention. Harry glanced up at that, quirking an inquisitive brow at his Head. "You do know that if I give you permission to visit Malfoy Manor, the Headmaster won't be pleased with the conjugal visit."

Harry smiled softly at that, tilting his head to the side and allowed himself to peek up at his Professor from beneath his lashes. "I don't understand why that would be so… I mean, after all, the Headmaster isn't my legal guardian, sir. So why would he have any say in how I go about my daily life?"

Professor Snape couldn't swallow the chuckle in time, and he shook his head at the Potter heir. "Very good, little Snake," the Potions Master murmured as he turned to leave Harry to his chores. He headed off into his office to write Harry his permission to visit, a note that he would be sending off to Lucius Malfoy, and was rather pleased at his student's reliance upon using his mind instead of immediately trying to bravado his way into getting what he wanted—the way that, at one time, James Potter would have done.

Nature versus nurture, truly.

Not that Professor Snape would ever admit it aloud, but he no longer minded his role as Harry's guardian as much as he had originally done; there were hidden traits to the boy, ones that the Potions Master would enjoy watching unfurl as the years passed and the child learned more about himself and the world around him.

»Is the Herb-Man allowing you to visit your nestmate?« Zambia asked when Professor Snape was completely gone from the lab; the elegant Black Mamba slithered out from beneath Harry's collar, tongue flickering in and out as she tasted for threats—beings that she would protect her young charge against.

»He is,« Harry answered, giving his familiar a quick smile as he reached up to lightly scratch just behind where her hears would have otherwise been. She hissed in pleasure at the affectionate touch, head swaying to and fro in what others would have considered a threatening gesture and Harry knew was just her way of demonstrating how pleased she was. »We'll probably be visiting my 'nestmate' closer to the end of the week, though. I know that Professor Snape has a couple more boxes of ingredients that he would want me to go through before I leave.«

»Well, of course,« Zambia said tartly in reply, hissing her amusement at Harry's statement. »The Herb-Man is a true enough Snake. It would have been foolish enough to allow you to leave when you could be doing his work for him.«

Harry snorted in amusement before pressing a quick kiss to the top of the snake's head, coaxing her into sliding back beneath his robes. »Sometimes I wonder if you prefer Professor Snape over me,« he teased, resuming his work as he heard the Potions Master's movements, ones that were beginning to come closer.

»Silly child. Of course I prefer you.«

Harry gave another affectionate smile to his hidden familiar and glanced down at the table he stood before, resuming his work before Professor Snape could come in and scold him for being a "lazy dunderhead"—never mind the fact that the copper jar was already more than half full with seeds.

In the end, it took Harry a grand total of four more hours before he had managed to pry enough jovi seeds from their pods to appease the meticulous Potions Master. That was acceptable, however, because Harry had decided long ago that the hours spent at Professor Snape's side, both quiet and both intent upon their own individual tasks, was perhaps the most relaxed he had ever been capable of feeling.

Professor Snape would sometimes break the monotony to ask about Harry's progress on his summer school work and the boy would answer easily enough; it was never necessary to lie to his Head of House—he had always enjoyed learning, even while at the Dursleys', and having Hermione as a best friend had just ingrained that interest in knowledge even deeper. The questions, the concern, and the time spent with the black-clad man made Harry wonder, at times, if this was what it felt like to have a father.

He knew better, however, to mention it aloud to his professor.

The man would probably have a heart attack and die from shock.

That particular thought was enough to have Harry snickering in bemusement as the boy gathered together his satchel for suppertime; the other professors typically stuck to the Head Table, which meant that Harry was usually left alone at mealtimes, comfortably sprawled out over the Slytherin table. The boy had gotten in the habit of bringing along a book or two with him so that he could read and work ahead on certain things as the teachers conversed easily amongst themselves.

The book that Harry was currently reading was incredibly intriguing for the boy: it was a treatise that Professor Babbling had given to him at the start of the holidays, allowing the child to borrow it from her own collection. The book dealt with a great many theories in relation to runes, and the chapter that Harry found himself most engrossed in dealt with runes and counting—the links between runic numbers and creatures within the magical world itself.

What fascinated the Slytherin the most, however, came with two specific numbers: "zero" and "seven." Both highly magical numbers—the third most popular "most magical number" being infinity itself—it was intriguing to see what creatures represented each number. The Demiguise typically stood for the first number, due to its invisible properties, but neither seven nor infinity had creatures to represent either. Seven was, in many wizarding cultures, a highly magical number (though several Middle Eastern wizarding communities oftentimes argued that it was actually three that was the "most magical number of all")—but the more that Harry read, the more that he disagreed with many of the counting practices and the creatures that represented each number. Why have the Demiguise for "zero" when nothing stood for either "seven" or "infinity"? From his Arthimancy lessons…

He scribbled away at a piece of parchment as each thought came to him, frowning and deep in thought as he glanced from the treatise to his parchment. He wished that he could have been given the chance to scribble his thoughts and commentary in the book itself—but, well… it didn't belong to him. He did, however, make a note at the top of the paper to buy himself his own copy of the book so that he could transfer all of his writing over into his own purchase.

"Hello, my dear boy! Hard at work as ever, I see!"

It was a very near thing: Harry barely managed to freeze his face in time to keep himself from grimacing, and the boy shuttered his eyes as he cautiously glanced up to meet the twinkling, pleased gaze of the current Headmaster at Hogwarts.

"Yes, Headmaster Dumbledore," Harry began, voice subdued before he carefully flickered his eyes away from the elderly man's. "Professor Babbling overheard Professor Snape mentioning that I was nearly done with my summer work, and so she was kind enough to let me borrow one of her books on runes so that I might learn some more on my own. I had wanted to read through it as quickly as possible so that I might give the book back to her before I left to visit the Malfoys."

"Ah, speaking of the Malfoys, Harry. I think that it best that you refrain from visiting them this summer," Dumbledore said as his twinkle doubled in its strength.

Harry frowned at that, glancing sideways at the Headmaster from the corner of his gaze. "Oh? And why is that?"

"Well, I hadn't yet wanted to bring this up to you until you were a bit older, but now that you've been becoming friends with young Mr. Malfoy… I worry, Harry. I worry very much, and the Malfoys are not exactly very nice people. I'm sure that, with your time in Slytherin, you've already heard some of the things that Mr. Malfoy had done in the last war. And young Mr. Malfoy…"

"Is _my friend_," Harry said, tone dry. "And _my friend_ has invited me to spend time with him and his family during the summer holidays. Mr. Malfoy has even received an invitation from Minister Fudge to join him in the Minister's Box during the upcoming game for the Quidditch World Cup."

"I think it best that you not go, though, my dear boy," Dumbledore replied, twinkle going off like mad as he reached out and gently rested his hand upon the boy's left forearm, touch tightening briefly.

Harry's gaze went hooded and he lifted his chin to finally meet his Headmaster's eyes head-on. "If I change my mind and refrain from visiting Draco and his family, will you return my property to me?" he asked, already knowing what Dumbledore would say by how the old man's expression turned hard.

"No, Harry," the man said, tone regretful.

The Slytherin shrugged at that and gently tugged his arm out from beneath the Headmaster's hold. "Then there isn't anything else to discuss, is there? Besides, my legal guardian has already given permission—and so there is nothing to stop me, Headmaster."

"_Harry_."

"I bid you good night, Headmaster Dumbledore. Pleasant dreams." The farewell was accompanied with a small, formal smile as Harry gathered together his things and left the Great Hall, knowing that he wouldn't have to take care of his dirty utensils since the Hogwarts' elves would soon enough Banish them down to the kitchens to clean.

As Harry made his way down to the dungeons, he just barely managed to keep himself from rubbing roughly at the area on his forearm that the Headmaster had touched suspiciously. The _old bastard_ had _no_ right to—

»Is everything all right? You taste of brimstone.«

»I _hate_ him, Zambia.«

»And well you should,« came the tart answer as the Black Mamba eased out of her hiding place to nuzzle affectionately at the underside of Harry's jawline. »The Elder-One considers himself a Lion when he is anything but.«

Oh, and how true those words were.

* * *

Even Harry had to admit (though never aloud) that he _had_ rushed through the last of the Potions supplies and their preparation in order to ensure that he'd be able to be done in time for his visit to Malfoy Manor and the family that resided within. It had been a close call—the boy had stayed up until two in the morning to ensure that he had finished—but he had finished with the assignment that Professor Snape had given to him. And, now, it was time to go visiting.

"Be on your best behavior," the Slytherin Head of House forewarned as he handed Harry the bowl of Floo Powder so that the boy might be able to grab a handful. In answer to that, the Potter heir just grinned cheekily up at his professor.

"I'm a Slytherin, Professor. Aren't we _always_ on our best behavior?"

Professor Snape didn't bother to hide his derisive snort at that, and he light cuffed Harry upside the head—it was the very reason why Harry was in Slytherin that the professor was giving his Snake the warning. "None of your cheek, little dunderhead, or I'll take points away from Slytherin before the school year has even had the chance to begin."

The threat was enough to immediately sober up the boy, and he promptly gave a quick nod in answer. "Yes, sir," Harry said and scooped up a handful of Floo Powder. Professor Snape gestured him towards the fireplace after taking the bowl back and, without further ado, Harry stepped beneath the mantle and tossed the powder down upon the ground. "Malfoy Manor!" he yelled out, loud and clear, and the long dizzying line of various fireplaces spun past him.

Faster and faster and faster Harry spun, and the boy couldn't stop the slight disappointed moue at the thought that, by the time that he arrived at Malfoy Manor, he'd be absolutely covered in soot like all others who traveled by the Floo network. Just as the boy was heaving a sigh, the fireplace finally expelled him and Harry stumbled out into the main entranceway of Malfoy Manor: his now-dirty self a direct contrast to the clean, elegant lines that ran through the entire architecture.

"Welcome once more to our home, dear Mr. Potter," Narcissa Malfoy greeted as she made her way closer to the sooty boy with a whispering swish of her pretty skirts. She helped steady Harry with a hand just beneath his elbow, and then the blonde woman waved her wand in an economical gesture that Harry had desperately tried to emulate during the past year.

Suddenly, the soot, dirt, and grime disappeared without a sound.

"Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy," Harry said, giving her a small smile—his thanks applying to both her greeting and her removing the black residue from his skin and clothes. The green-eyed pressed his customary kiss to the back of Mrs. Malfoy's hand before easing up to add in a second kiss to the pale woman's cheek—the second on her insistence.

"Come, come," the lady of the manor scolded lightly as she laughed, the sound as pretty as the chiming of bells. "You have been told before to call me Aunt Narcissa. The Blacks and Malfoys both have had friendly dealings—and marriages—with the Potters in the past. This makes us family."

Harry scrunched his nose playfully up at the pale woman, letting Mrs. Malfoy guide him—knowing that she was taking him to the room that he would occupy during his stay here at the Manor, knowing as well that Draco would have been waiting for him in the room, too. "You already know what my ultimatum is to your request," he reminded her.

Smiling at that, Mrs. Malfoy inclined her head as she opened the door to his bedroom and presenting the figure of her son to the Boy-Who-Lived. "Be welcome to our home, Harry."

"Thank you, Aunt Narcissa," the boy amended, pressing another kiss to the seemingly snow queen's cheek before Narcissa had the chance to withdraw to lave the boys to their catching up. The bit of affection had the woman smiling absently, and she closed the door after herself. Once they were alone, Harry's grin turned wicked as he looked the suddenly much-taller Malfoy heir up and down. "Hullo, Draco. My, my~ You're definitely sprout up since I saw you last. Got into Professor Sprout's potions before coming home?"

Draco snorted at that, ignoring the tease, and made his way over to his friend to lightly punch Harry on the arm. "Have you heard? For the Quidditch World Cup, we're going to be in the Minister's Box by the personal invitation of Cornelius Fudge _himself_."

Harry laughed openly at that, eyes rolling as he returned the light punch with one of his own. "Oh, yes, Draco. I _do_ seem to recall that—I mean, after all, you _did_ mention that little fact in every one of your letters for the past month. _Every single one_, I'd like to emphasize."

Draco colored slightly at that, though he tried to pretend that Harry's teasing—and Harry's correct assessment about Draco's boasting—wasn't spot-on. "Anyway," the blonde boy began, upturning his nose slightly before giving his friend his full attention. "Father just recently has been making contacts within the French Ministry of Magic; the Minister gave him a gift in thanks for several of the problems that Father helped him with. Have you ever seen an Abraxan, Harry?"

The slighter Slytherin quirked an eyebrow at that and shook his head for a negative answer. "No. What is it?"

"It's a type of winged horse that originally comes from France," Draco began to excitedly explain, grabbing Harry's arm as he did so so that he might hurry the both of them outside to the stables that his father had just erected. "The Headmistress of the main magic school there is known for breeding them. They're bloody _huge_, though. And then Father also got several Aethonans and Granians, as well, so that we can have a proper stable. Come and see, Harry!"

It wasn't much longer before Draco was dragging Harry out past the gardens and the white peacocks that inhabited them (no matter how many times Harry ended up seeing them, the boy still couldn't help but silently snort at the pretentiousness that the peacocks represented of the family that he found himself growing close to).

Harry was startle from his internal musings, however, when he caught the tail-end of one of Draco's comments: "—and then Father decided to give one of the Granians to you since he figured that you could handle a fast-flying horse—"

"What?" Harry squawked, eyes widening in disbelief as his heels dug into the ground—thus forcing Draco to stop his determined forward movement. "What d'you mean_, your father decided to give me a flying horse_?"

Draco gave his friend a strange glance in reply. "Well, how else would we be able to go riding together?" he asked, ever the pragmatic aristocrat.

The raven-haired boy sputtered a little bit in answer to that, expression aghast as he just _stared_ at the blonde. "Well, yes, but that doesn't mean that he has to give me my _own_ horse; I could have always just borrowed one of the ones already in the stable that no one really uses."

The older Slytherin just snorted at that, bemused at his friend. "As if Father would ever do anything so _plebian_ as to let you _borrow_ something of ours. So he instead bought you your own horse. It's a Granian, I believe, though the coloring differs from the norm. Most Granians are gray; this one is black. Father said something about how you two would make a fetching pair." At that, Draco couldn't help but snicker.

To that, Harry muttered something about "ponces," though Draco raised himself up from such petty insults and refrained from noticing anything that his friend had said. Instead, the blonde led the way into the stables, greeting horses as he went from stall to stall. It wasn't until he reached the end that the boy stopped, pointing to a gold-gilt nameplate that read 'Ophiuchus.' Bemused, Harry just rolled his eyes: how typical of the Blacks and their obsession with stars.

"This is my horse, Ophiuchus," Draco said, voice proud as his shoulders straightened just a bit so that he was standing even taller. "He's an Aethonan from Ireland, and comes from the best lines there are. His grandmother was Lady Circe." Here, the blonde paused and stared at Harry expectantly. The boy, however, had no idea who Lady Circe was but still made the appropriate sounds of awe. Pleased with Harry's reaction, the blonde continued, "I've been riding him a little bit but not much since he only just arrived earlier this week. Mostly I've been waiting for you so that we can train the horses together. And here—here is your own horse."

The last was said with a gesture to the stall next to Ophiuchus'. Cautiously, Harry made his way over, green eyes going wide in surprise as he finally looked up to meet a pair of charcoal gray. The Granian snorted quietly—as if in greeting—and lifted the bulk of its head to look at him more closely over the edge of the stall's door. Remembering the one trip to the zoo and the visit to the petting area, Harry stretched his hand flat and let the beautiful horse snuffle curiously at his skin, lipping at it affectionately when Harry had no strange scents that would startle it.

"What's his name?" Harry asked as he reached up to scratch the Granian's forehead.

At that, Draco shrugged idly. "He doesn't have one yet. Father left him nameless so that you could pick out something appropriately suitable for him. He _is_ your horse, after all. Father didn't think it right if he named him for you."

Harry looked up at the handsome stallion for several long moments before a slow, mischief-laden smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Loki," the boy finally decided with a firm nod. At that, Draco's eyebrows shot up and he opened his mouth in inquiry. However, Harry beat him to it. "Look up the legend about Sleipnir sometime," the dark-haired boy said, eyes dancing wickedly.

The Malfoy heir snorted quietly at that, figuring that he might as well just dismiss the teasing for now and instead focus on what was _really_ important: "Come on; let's head back into the Manor to pack for the next several days. We can go riding later, when we return—for now, Father will expect us to be ready once he comes home from the Ministry. If we're not, I wouldn't be surprised if he ends up leaving without us."

"And _of course_ we can't have that happen," Harry said with an amused smirk, glancing sidelong at Draco. The blonde Snake just sniffed pretentiously at his friend and, in turn, Harry just openly laughed. Together, Light and Dark headed back towards the manor, hips bumping comfortably against one another's from time to time.

An hour later, though, Harry was grateful for Draco's warning.

The Malfoy patriarch came into the Manor like a strong breeze, and the very air pressure itself changed as Lucius Malfoy made his way through his ancestral home. It had been a long day at the Ministry, but worth it: He had convinced Minister Fudge to forward several new legislative bills that would further the dwindling rights of pureblood families through the British Isles, restoring some of the old entitlements that had been stripped away centuries before.

He moved through the Manor like a breath of fresh air, and the very nature of the old castle changed with his pleased mood; that same mood became even more pleased when he came to a stop before his son and Mr. Potter, both of whom were waiting for his arrival—packed and ready to leave, not only on time but even earlier than they were supposed to be. Lucius Malfoy could only approve.

"Good evening, boys," the blonde man greeted as he handed off his fur-trimmed coat to Dobby and accepted a more appropriate attire needed for "roughing it." Next, the house elf promptly handed his master his luggage that he would be taking. All the while, Dobby stared at Harry with wide, adoring eyes—to which, Lucius rolled his own. "Now, are you sure you have everything?"

When he received affirmatives from both boys, Draco's father then withdrew a silver pocketwatch from his coat, offering it up to the teenagers to lightly touch. "All right, then. Since you both say that you're ready, we'll immediately head off to the Pitch and get settled in with our gear. The start of the game, after all, is in three hours."

Harry and Draco exchanged a glance at that, both boys' eyes bright with excitement, and they readied themselves for the Portkey's activation. Luckily enough, Harry had been forewarned by Draco and fully realized that this would not be a pleasant experience for himself—and that, as a first timer, it would be even more difficult to ensure that he managed to keep his lunch in front of Mr. Malfoy. If he didn't…

Well, Draco's drawled "_pleb_" came to mind.

It was while Harry was thrumming with nerves and excitement and awe that Draco and his father had invited him along that the sensation of a hook dug into his navel and the three wizards were dragged out through the Malfoy Manor's wards. Clearing them caused an almost audible _pop!_ to sound in Harry's ears, and he grinned widely in answer as the sluggishness and aching feeling of the past several weeks slowly shed away. _They were on their way to watch the Quidditch World Cup!_ How could anyone _not_ be excited about such a thing?

Breath caught in his throat as the Portkey finally released the three of them, Harry fell rather haphazardly through the air but still managed to land on his feet; doing anything else would have shamed both Draco, Mr. Malfoy, and Harry's own House. One must always be fully presentable, always ready to take on an enemy. A serpent, after all, waited in the shadows to finally strike, patient cold-bloodedness allowing it to remain still for hours upon hours, days upon day. Though... a brief touch to his hidden companion reminded Harry that not _all _serpents were able to keep their tempers, were able to wait patiently.

Especially when summoned through space and time to try and terrorize one lone second year.

The raven-haired boy followed after the Malfoys, his luggage comfortably held in one hand as they threaded their way through lopsided tents that looked as if they hadn't been used in centuries. One in particular made Harry quirk an eyebrow in derision, though the tent was forgotten about easily enough when he, Mr. Malfoy, and Draco arrived at their own living arrangements. The green-gazed Slytherin stared up at the elegant campsite, eyes wide with awe, and then slowly began to smile in contentment as Harry ducked through the pavilion's opening.

"I _love_ magic," he whispered to himself.

* * *

* _Aeclectic Tarot_; aeclectic[dot]net


	9. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER NINE**

"Blimey, dad! How far up are we?"

Hearing the "dulcet" tones of one Ronald Weasley, Harry grimaced and hoped that he, Mr. Malfoy, and Draco would be able to pass by without the pack of gingers spotting them. Alas, though: It was just not meant to be.

"Malfoy! Potter! What the _bloody hell_ are _you two_ doing here?"

Knowing full well what was to come, Harry shifted just enough to stomp his heel on the toe of Draco's shiny black shoe, right when the Malfoy heir had just about puffed himself up to begin saying the litany that Harry had all but memorized weeks ago. "Harry, Father, and I are in the _Minister's Box_—" Thankfully, however, the pain of Harry's weight upon his foot managed to cut Draco off before he could get that much further into his pompous arse act.

"Don't boast, Draco," Mr. Malfoy scolded his son, voice quiet enough so that only Harry and Draco could hear his reprimand; it would have been uncouth to have the Malfoy patriarch loudly berating his only son and heir in public, and the family honor would have suffered because of it. "There's no need, not with these people."

The blonde teen's face flamed with shame at the fact that his father had had to scold him as he hadn't had to in years, and Draco's eyes dropped immediately to try and compose himself and keep from further embarrassing his father. Harry, seeing that, gently bumped his side against Draco's, catching his friend's attention. "Didn't you know, Draco?" the green-eyed boy murmured for just the other's ears alone. Harry's gaze danced with mirth, inviting Draco to join him in his joke. "Boasting is so _plebian_~"

Draco scowled at Harry's adopting of his favorite insult (other than Mudblood, that is, though the Malfoy heir had always been careful not to say _that _word around Harry considering his friendship with the Granger girl—knowing full well that speaking that word would have broken his and Harry's budding friendship beyond repair, which was something that Draco wasn't willing to chance), but then the sharp-faced boy lightly bumped Harry in return. He knew that the other was trying to tease him and cheer him up after his father's scold, and it was… _kind_… of Harry to attempt to do so. It was something that a friend would try to do, and it warmed a place deep within Draco's chest to realize that he now had someone in his life who would attempt to do that for him. Never before had he had such a reassuring presence.

Willing to put the shame aside for this night, a quick smile eased across Draco's mouth, and the pureblood boy glanced slyly at Harry from the corner of his eyes. "Hey, Harry. Would you like to make a little wager? I bet ten Galleons that Krum will help the Bulgarians win the match," the boy said as he, Harry, and his father followed various dignitaries from all over the world towards the VIP section of the stands.

Harry laughed aloud, amusement bright and sparkling, and the boy purposefully pitched his voice so that a still-smirking Ronald Weasley would be able to hear him; Harry wanted nothing more than to deflate the redhead's pompousness that came from forcing Draco's father to scold his son in public. "Are you serious, Draco? Only a _Weasley_ would be foolish enough to take _that_ bet." The smirk was abruptly wiped off of Weasley's face, and Draco couldn't help but laugh, as well.

Feeling _much_ better than he had moments before, Draco's step turned jaunty as his father led the way to the Minister's Box. As they made their way through the maze of the stands, Draco reached out and gently wrapped his fingers around Harry's wrist, squeezing snugly in thanks. It was with Harry's help that he had managed to salvage some of his pride—the pride that only Harry knew could become so easily bruised.

* * *

"Lucius! I'm so glad that you were able to accept my invitation," Minister Fudge said with a wide, officious smile as he reached out and clasped Mr. Malfoy's hand as the aristocrat stepped up into the Box. Soon enough, Draco was stepping up behind his father and Fudge's smile grew even wider. "And you must be Lucius' son, the young Mr. Malfoy."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, sir," Draco murmured, knowing what it was that his father was expecting of him. He gave the British Minister a bland smile before gesturing behind himself to where Harry was just making his way up the stairs to the Box's opening. "I hope that you don't mind, sir, but I invited along my friend, Harry, so that he might join us."

Hearing his name, Harry glanced up and quirked an eyebrow at Draco—wasn't the Minister supposed to _already_ know that the Malfoys were bringing him along?—but all became clear soon enough when the Minister's jaw dropped practically down to his chest, and the man wheezed in surprise. "Merlin's beard! You're _Harry Potter_!"

Face smoothing into a politician's practiced smile—learned from watching Lucius Malfoy himself—Harry stepped forward and offered his hand. "I am, yes, or at least I was the last time that I checked," Harry answered, _smiling smiling smiling_, and shook Fudge's hand. "I hope that I'm not intruding, though…? I'm staying with the Malfoys for a bit, and when Draco asked if I wanted to come and see the Quidditch World Cup… well, how could I refuse? I heard that Krum was playing, after all."

Fudge gaped a bit, stupefied at what it was that he was hearing, though his hand continued to just automatically shake Harry's. "Staying… with the Malfoys?" All the while, political connections began to race through his mind at the speed of light.

Harry grinned at that and adopted a bashful one-shouldered shrug. "Yeah, I'm staying with them for the next month. Draco's one of my best friends, and I got to stay with his family last year, too. Though… oh! I nearly forgot, sir. Mr. Malfoy was telling me and Draco about the latest bit of legislation that you passed earlier today, and I just wanted to congratulate you on _such_ a brilliant move! I mean, I've been learning a lot about wizarding history, and it's absolutely _horrid_ to about read all of the traditions that have been taken away or deteriorated because…" The boy continued in this train for a bit longer, eyes wide with feigned innocence as he stared up in awe at the British Minister.

"Oh? Do you really think so?" Minister Fudge asked as he snapped out of his shock. He puffed up like a peacock, preening beneath the praise—and all the while coaxing more compliments from _Harry Potter_, all of which Harry was more than happy enough to give.

"He's doing rather well on his own," Mr. Malfoy murmured against his son's ear as he watched the Boy-Who-Lived expertly play Minister Fudge, encouraging the man with meaningless compliments and praise upon his brilliance. All the while, Fudge continued to bask in it all, pleased at having _Harry Potter's_ support for his actions.

Draco smirked at that, leaning back slightly so that he could press lightly against his father's chest. "I should hope so," the boy whispered in answer. "He soaks up the stories that I tell about _you_."

Though Lucius Malfoy's outward mask remained unfazed, Draco knew that he had taken his father aback. The brief flickering of his father's pale lashes had given it away, and Draco could only feel that much more self-satisfaction at surprising his father. It was a rare enough occurrence, and Draco cherished it for what it was.

His father was only human.

* * *

"Draco, what _are_ they?" Harry asked with eyes wide in surprise when Ireland fouled Bulgaria and the beautiful women who had cheered for the Germanic team suddenly _shifted _and grew beaks, wings, and—shockingly enough—deadly-looking _talons_. They screeched at the Irish team and its own mascot, the leprechauns, and the dark-haired Slytherin shifted further back into the Minister's Box as the creatures swooped out from their section. The referees trilled a time-out as the black-and-white clad men and women flew down to separate the fight between whatever-they-were and the leprechauns, fire blooming through the air as the fight continued to progress.

"Those are Veela, Harry," Mr. Malfoy informed, reaching out and lightly resting a hand upon his charge's shoulder, steadying him when Harry's curiosity got the better of him and he made his way closer to the edge of the box so that he could continue watching the fight. "They are magical creatures: sentient, powerful, and vicious when their ire is raised. You will do well to remember never to cross magic with one, never to enter into a fight with one."

"Personally, I don't think that that's _ever_ going to happen," Harry said as his eyes widened further as he watched one of the referees duck a fireball thrown by one of the rather terrifying creatures. Unbeknownst to the boy, Lucius Malfoy's eyes hooded and a secret smile played about his lips before abruptly disappearing, and he guided Harry back into his seat with a gentle but firm touch.

The rest of the game continued without—much—interference from either the crowd or the teams' mascots, though the Veela didn't bother to transform back into their beautiful selves, instead preferring to hiss threateningly at the leprechauns whenever the Irish team managed to score past the Bulgarian Keeper. Even without the occasional hiccup, however, the game ended up being fascinating, and Harry and Draco watched it unfold with rapt, attentive eyes.

It didn't come as much of a surprise, however, when Viktor Krum managed to catch the Golden Snitch and ended the game, winning it for Bulgaria. Caught up in the atmosphere, the two boys cheered loudly, joining half of the stadium, while the other half booed loudly, obviously displeased with how the game had ended.

Soon enough, once the crowds had cleared and Mr. Malfoy had concluded some last minute business with Minister Fudge, the Malfoys and their guest headed back to the pavilion where they would be staying the night, Harry and Draco still chattering on about the game.

"You know, I had always heard about the Wronski Feint, but had never gotten the chance to see it in real life," Harry said, voice thoughtful. "Now that I know what it looks like—how to do it—I think that I can probably use it against the other teams' Seekers in the upcoming games this year…"

"Do you honestly think that any of them will actually fall for it, though?" Draco asked in reply, voice dubious as he glanced over at Harry, who immediately smirked at the blonde. The dark-haired Slytherin's answer?

"The Gryffindor Seeker, definitely."

Both laughed openly at that, and Draco continued on with the train in saying that he was surprised that Gryffindor even _had_ a Seeker for its team since all Gryffindors tended to be too blind to see what was obviously right in front of their faces. With that horrid trend, how was it even possible that a _Gryffindor_ was able to see something as fast and as small as the Snitch?

Harry's smirk deepened at that and he allowed Draco to continue on with the trend—alleviating some of his frustration from earlier when the trio had bumped into the Weasley family. Mr. Malfoy let Draco blow off the steam, knowing that the boy still needed to recover from the slight blow to his pride, and was content in letting Harry handle it. The Potter heir was surprisingly… politic.

But, then again, Harry Potter wasn't at all what Lucius had been expecting.

He had expected a boy who was as foolish as James Potter had been, who spouted off Light propaganda and who, like his father, turned his back on his family's heritage. He had expected yet another blood traitor—which concerned him since it was obvious that Draco had been getting rather attached to the Potter heir.

Instead, however, Lucius had been greeted by a true _Slytherin_.

During Harry's first visit, the boy had greeted Lucius warmly enough; his handshake had been firm, confident, self-assured in a way that not very many children could actually pull off. The smile that the James lookalike had given to him was welcoming enough, but… _those eyes_. Those eyes that had belonged to the Mudblood witch were hooded and distrustful, distant as the boy assessed Lucius Malfoy.

It had made Lucius Malfoy curious as to how the Boy-Who-Lived, icon for the Light, had managed to gain such eyes—surprising eyes, ones that not even Draco, as talented as his son was, was yet capable of emulating.

"Thank you for the books, Mr. Malfoy," the Potter boy had finally said, naming several titles that Lucius had sent to his own son, not this dark-haired child. Immediately, Lucius' gaze had flicked over to Draco and the boy immediate looked down, coloring brightly. When the Malfoy patriarch had again returned his attention to this Slytherin enigma, the boy's eyes gleamed with some telltale emotion that Lucius couldn't yet pinpoint and then continued on, "The theory behind the Nightmare Curse was particularly interesting to read about. I was wondering, though, if you would mind me asking you some questions regarding points that I'm a little unsure on."

And that had been that—and that encounter had been almost a year ago to this day.

Watching his son and his friend, though, Lucius couldn't help but marvel at the changes that had further managed to occur in the Potter heir. Harry was still quietly confident, quick with his wit—much like a striking snake, paralleling the creature that was always with him—and, interesting enough, was his ability to _manipulate_.

It had been readily apparent with Minister Fudge but here, too, Harry demonstrated a knack for the political talent. The only difference between the two incidents was that it was obvious that the boy had no respect for the British Minister while, with Draco, Harry used his knowledge to put his son's stung pride at rest. He _knew_ Draco and, with the hand of a master craftsman, shifted the conversation so that Draco could once more learn how to stand tall.

It was… interesting. Intriguing, certainly.

And Lucius wondered if, perhaps, it might be better to _encourage_ several changes to plans that would soon be forthcoming in their results. There was so much Dark potential hidden within this child—though, if Lucius were to be completely honest with himself, the lighter taint of Dark magic than last year made the ice-like aristocrat curious as to the reason _why_ Harry seemed to have left off practicing his knowledge.

But that was a trail of thought that Lucius didn't have the luxury to follow for the moment seeing as how his attention was required to remain upon his two young charges and the preparations for later on that evening that he would have to ready himself for.

It was hours later, however, when Lucius was dressed in robes that he had not donned in years and under the belief that both Harry and Draco were abed and contently dreaming—it was then that Lucius was reminded about the unfortunate tendency of boys to be where one least expected and least wanted them to be.

Harry Potter stood before the icebox, a glass of water in one hand, and frozen with his gaze trained completely upon Lucius Malfoy's white Death Eater mask.

The elder Malfoy did not give himself time to think: immediately, his wand rose and he barked out a sharp, "_Obliviate!_" While it was not wise to use a Memory Charm on an adolescent, whose magical core and brain were both still developing, Mr. Malfoy was willing to risk it because, otherwise, the consequences would be dire.

However…

However.

Harry's wand flickered into motion—and Lucius had a moment to regret casting the wards that allowed Harry and Draco's use of magic to go undetected by the Ministry—and, soon enough, the boy had cast a nonverbal Shield Charm.

"_How_—" Lucius breathed, eyes wide at the impossibility of the situation.

"I had an excellent tutor," Harry answered simply before, once more, his wand was again in motion. The Malfoy patriarch attempted to dive to dodge this coming spell, but he was not fast enough, and the spell caught hold. "_Imperio!_"

Harry watched in an almost dispassionate manner as Draco's dad's eyes went from being comically wide to slightly glazed, a certain type of dull sheen entering into them that signaled that the spell had taken root. Harry hadn't been certain that it would work, but Tom had said that it was the _will _that gave the spell power, and the raven-haired Slytherin desperately wanted to know the answer to the question that had been plaguing him since he had first met Mr. Malfoy the summer before.

"Why did you become a Death Eater?" Harry asked and _willed_ Mr. Malfoy into giving the absolute truth as an answer, fingers curling tight around his wand thought it remained steady as Harry kept it pointed at the black-clad man.

"Our world is fading around us," came the prompt answer, and Mr. Malfoy swayed slightly from side to side. "Each year, the Ministry takes away the rights and traditions of the purebloods that have been ours since the very beginning. Certain classes have ceased in being taught at Hogwarts, the valuable information that our children _need_ to know has been denied to them. More and more, our magic has become _average_, has become streamlined and ordinary. Most wizards have become complacent—fat and lazy and unworthy of the power that resides within them. They do _nothing_ with it. The richness that once was part of our world has become dull, like an age-old tapestry that suffered through the years without the protection that a Preservation Charm would have offered. Change needs to happen and happen soon before _everything_ falls apart. Our world needs to be rebuilt, and Old Magic needs to once more become entwined within our lives; denying it much longer will mean our own deaths. The Dark Lord promised us this revival."

Harry quirked an eyebrow at that, curiosity getting the better of him. "Killing Muggles doesn't really seem to be the best way to go about getting those changes," he pointed out, playing Devil's Advocate and voicing Reason.

Mr. Malfoy slightly sneered at that, arrogance still managing to seep in through the haze of the Imperius Curse. "We were younger and foolish. We were… angry."

"At what?" Harry asked, stepping forward so that he could watch the blonde man's face as the other answered. Despite the fact that the boy had him under the Imperius Curse, Mr. Malfoy's emotions still easily flickered over his face.

"The Muggle world has been tainting our own for centuries and is one of the main causes for the disintegration. While the eventual goal is complete dissimilation, many of us could not help but lash out before the final separation. Their world has been ruining our own. Would you, yourself, not be angry?"

Harry didn't bother to address that question and, instead, tilted his head to the side as he posed yet another inquiry. "What about the Muggleborns?"

The sneer was in full-force. "The Mudbloods come from the Muggle taint, but magic is magic in the end and they, too, will be required to contribute to the strengthening of our world."

"Huh. That's interesting," Harry murmured thoughtfully, still eyeing Mr. Malfoy from beneath his lashes. The older man was giving the boy a great deal to think about and ponder the ramifications for the future; what _would_ happen should the wizarding world ever completely fall apart? Finally, though, the boy shook his head and decided to think on it later. "Anyway. What was that one spell that you were going to shoot at me?"

"The Memory Charm."

Harry didn't bother to hide his scowl. "And what does it do, Mr. Malfoy?"

"It obliterates certain memories, forcing the person to forget them; with proper care, the caster might even be capable of replacing new memories instead so that things appear less suspicious."

If anything, Harry's expression became that much more irritated. "And its incantation?"

"_Obliviate_."

To that, the teenager nodded, memorizing the incantation for future use—or, more specifically, for its immediate use. He lifted the Imperius Curse now that he had information regarding questions that had remained unanswered for so long. Mr. Malfoy shook his head as sense once more came into his eyes but, before he had the chance to fully recover, Harry lifted his wand and firmly intoned, "_Obliviate!_"

* * *

Lucius Malfoy stood before the opening to his family's pavilion, staring… at what? There had been something that must have caught his attention, he was sure, but… what had it been? The thought eased away from his fingers, keeping just barely out of grasp. There had been… something. Right?

Shaking his head and deciding to let it go, Lucius pushed open the flap that the pavilion used as a door, head ducking down so that he could step beneath it to make his way outside, striding towards the outskirts of the camp where he and the others were to meet.

Once the Malfoy patriarch was gone, Harry slipped from the shadows and headed back towards the icebox so that he could resume pouring himself his glass of water.

* * *

The middle of the night was filled with screaming, panicking British wizards that desperately tried to get as far away from the black-clad men and women, donned with bone-white skull masks, that made their way through the camping grounds. People stumbled and many of them were hurt, injuries running rampant as those that could Apparate did and those who could not were left to the tender mercies of thrown spells and crashing, frantic bodies against their own.

"Death Eaters! Death Eaters! _Run away!_" voices cried out, egging people on—wanting others to run faster, run harder so that they could get away from the symbols of Death and Destruction as quickly as possible. What was interesting, however, and no one made note of it—not even the _Daily Prophet_ when the newspaper made its report on the attack—was that no one had been killed. Injuries, yes, but caused by people who did _not _wear the trademark mask. The most that had been done was property damage. And that was it.

As wizards and witches and their progeny ran from the group that wore the garb of the Dark Lord, Harry Potter leaned against the edge of the Malfoy's pavilion, watching the destruction unfold with the blonde heir at his side.

"Do you think that my father is amongst them right now?" Draco asked, voice subdued.

"Yes," Harry answered simply, stating something that he knew was fact.

The other boy swallowed at that, twining his fingers with one another in a nervous gesture that he hadn't done since first year and when he was first gathering together the courage to approach the famous Harry Potter that he had heard about all of his life. "Do you hate my family because he—_we_, all of us—follow the Dark Lord?"

Harry reached out then, stilling Draco's hands and quieting the other boy's nervousness. "You're my friend," Harry murmured, finally turning away from the carnage to give Draco his full attention. The boy flinched beneath the green-eyed gaze, and Harry tightened his hold upon his friend's hand. "You're my friend, Draco; your mother has asked me to call her 'aunt,' something that touches me very deeply; your father has invited me into your home for the second time—each stay's duration long—and he has given me a beautiful, beautiful Winged horse as a gift. No, I don't hate any of you."

Draco sighed and finally allowed himself to relax minutely. "Even though history might be repeating itself…?" he asked, voice soft.

To that, Harry just shrugged. "It may or may not be repeating itself. You never really know until the moment's passed and you can look back and say, 'Ah ha.' Until that moment happens… everything's always up in the air. Right?"

"That's a rather pragmatic way of looking at things."

The raven-haired boy snorted in answer to that, bemused with Draco's comment. "If anything, I'd think that it was a rather _Slytherin_ way of looking at things. Lie in wait, see what happens, change what you can, and _survive_ above all else."

The comment was enough to make Draco's fingers squeeze snugly around Harry's in answer. The blonde had been thinking a great deal—ever since he had started to become closer to the Boy-Who-Lived, ever since the article about Harry's home life had come out in the _Daily Prophet_. Many things had been explained about Harry's behavior through that article—Draco imagined what it would have been like should his own parents have treated him like a house elf, and the boy shuddered in horror and a tight feeling that burrowed low in his belly—but… there was _still _always something a bit off about Harry, something that couldn't be explained by his treatment at the Dursleys' hands or even the fact that he had been Sorted into Slytherin.

It was just a feeling that Draco had, one that he couldn't exactly put into words.

But Harry was different—different from all of the other students at Hogwarts, from any of the Slytherins in their House, different even from any of the wizards that Draco had ever come across. Different, so different—and Draco admitted himself intrigued and wanted nothing more than to learn what he could about his friend.

Harry was special.

Draco's thoughts stilled at that, freezing upon that one particular pathway—remembering those words, that thought, something to return to later when he had more time to mull over his inner musings. Now, however, was not that time: his father was making his way towards the two boys, hair slightly disheveled and a bit of mud rimming the bottom of his silk robes.

"Boys!" Mr. Malfoy said, coming up to the duo and resting a hand upon his son's shoulder. "You should have remained in the pavilion, where it was safe. There was a Death Eater attack here tonight; most everyone is still mulling about in confusion." As the blonde aristocrat spoke, he reached out to rest his other hand on Harry's shoulder so that he may start guiding the two teenage Slytherins into the interior of the warded pavilion. "Come inside, where it is safe."

"Father, where did you go?" Draco asked as he and Harry shared a Look.

Mr. Malfoy paused for a moment at that; if he and Draco had been alone, he would have told his son the truth. However… Harry Potter, Slytherin though he was, still remained an anomaly to Lucius Malfoy. Thus, the man lied, tongue silvered as he told his tale. "I heard screams and I went to investigate. I then discovered that it was a group of Death Eaters that had appeared in the middle of the grounds."

Harry glanced sideways to see a frowning Draco, then shifted just enough to look over his shoulder so that he might meet Lucius Malfoy's silvery gaze. "Sir?" the young boy began. "That seems rather foolish. I mean, with the Dark Lord apparently vanquished, there doesn't really seem to be a _point_ in the Death Eater's attack. Right? What would attacking a bunch of random people at the Quidditch World Cup accomplish?"

"Never mind, Harry," came Mr. Malfoy's cautious reply. "I'm sure that it's due to something beyond our comprehension."

_Sure_, Harry thought with a subtle eyeroll, hand coming up to caress Zambia as he headed back to the bunks that he and Draco were sharing for the night. _Or perhaps you don't have an actually reasonable answer and so you're just pulling things from your arse._

The thought was one that made Harry silently snort, and the lithe boy clambered up into the top bunk as Draco made himself comfortable once more in the bottom. Once he was certain that the two boys were situated for the night once more, Mr. Malfoy extinguished the light and drew the "bedroom" curtains shut.

It didn't take much longer until the stress and the length of the day finally coaxed Draco to succumb back into slumber, leaving Harry still wide awake and not at all in the mood to dream. The dark-haired boy stirred slightly, fingers caressing gently over Zambia's cool scales.

»My little Slytherin child should be asleep,« the Black Mamba scolded sleepily as Zambia eased her head out from the folds of Harry's robes. Her tongue flicked out to brush against his jawline, and the snake proceeded to give Harry what could have only been a very pointed Look. She was a lazy then, when allowed, and loved her naps.

»I know. But my thoughts are racing and I can't bring myself to sleep. I've learned many things this night, and… I was wondering if we could maybe talk about them. You know that you're the only one that I trust implicitly, Zambia,« Harry said, explaining his reasons for waking the pretty snake. He knew that, even with his worries she wouldn't be completely pleased with him, and he scratched lightly at her head in apology.

»I have an easy answer. You think too much, snake-child,« Zambia grumbled, mostly to herself at this point, and leaned absently into Harry's comforting touches. She yawned widely, fangs proudly displayed despite her sleepiness, and finally gave her young "pet" her full attention. »And what scurrying thoughts have plagued you this night?«

Harry remained silent for a moment, still gently scratching Zambia's head, and finally asked something that he had been curious about for a while now, »Was Voldemort well-known amongst the serpents?«

»Foolish dunderhead,« Zambia answered, adopting Professor Snape's favorite nickname for Harry. »Of course the Dark Lord was well-known amongst my people. How could it have been otherwise? Wadjet had joined with him, after all.«

»Who?«

Zambia hissed a laugh at that, shifting just enough to bump her head against the edge of Harry's jawline. »Dunderhead,« she repeated once more. »Have you become so enamoured with the status quo that you haven't bothered looking up the books on the Old Ways in Slytherin's library? He was particularly fond of Wadjet, after all.«

»Um…«

In a human gesture, the Black Mamba shook her head in bemusement before retreating back into her hiding place. »I'm going back to sleep. And you, snake-child, are in need of lessons when we return to the big pile of stones after our time with your nestmate. It is important, after all, to always remember what came before this Now—you humans forget these things much too easily. But, then again, I suppose that that's what you have those 'books' for.«

Completely at a loss for where this conversation had gone, Harry carefully asked, »Zambia…?«

»Go to sleep.«

And that, Harry knew, was that.

* * *

The next morning was, in comparison to the night before, rather anticlimactic. The two boys rose when the Malfoy patriarch called for them—both immediately dressed, they entered into the main part of the pavilion to the scent of fresh bread, sweet, just ripened fruit, bitter dark chocolate, enticing honey, and some sort of cooked meat that Draco later on informed Harry was quail. It was all delicious, absolutely perfect, and Harry ate with table manners that were as impeccable as any pureblood child's.

Once Draco and Harry were both finishing up, Mr. Malfoy took his napkin and lightly patted at his mouth with it. "I was wonder, boys," the blonde man began after clearing his voice softly to gain their attention. "If you would like to meet the Bulgarian Quidditch team before they return back to their homes."

Immediately, Draco and Harry's eyes alit, though that was the only outer sign of their inner delight and excitement—anything more and it was likely that Mr. Malfoy would probably retract his generous offer.

"That would be utterly fantastic, Mr. Malfoy," Harry began after a moment of silence—and after Draco nudged his foot from beneath the table, out of his father's sight. "It would be an honor to have the chance to congratulate the winners of the Quidditch World Cup. Thank you so very much for your offer, sir."

Mr. Malfoy chuckled at that, finally giving Harry his full and complete attention, an assessing element settling into his gaze. "You know, Harry, I've been considering this for a while now. My wife has given you permission to call her Aunt Narcissa, hasn't she?" He waiting until Harry nodded in answer, and then the aristocrat continued. "I think that it would be rather odd for you to call Narcissa by the title of 'aunt' and myself still 'Mr. Malfoy,' and so, my boy, I would be honored if you would feel comfortable enough to call me Uncle Lucius in turn."

Harry tilted his head in thought, mind racing as he considered the blonde man's offer. Lucius Malfoy, Harry decided, was the type of man who looked more like a _Mr_. Malfoy or a _Lord_ Malfoy than an "Uncle Lucius." The title "Uncle Lucius" seemed rather too much like a farce, the title comical and ironic because of the contrast between the familial, comfortable title and how chill the man came off as. Still… still. Refusing the offer would look odd, and it would be an insult to Mr. Malfoy besides.

So, instead, Harry just gave the older man a soft, appreciative smile and allowed his eyes to shine with unshed tears of gratitude. "I would be honored to do so… Uncle Lucius."

Pleased that this now offered up a new connection to the Boy-Who-Lived, Lucius Malfoy hid a cat-got-the-canary smile behind the rim of his cup of tea, sipping lightly at the warm liquid and basking in the glow of a machination coming to fruition.

Draco, on the other hand, was just pleased at the fact that this made him and Harry "cousins," of sorts. Not true ones, no—but the only cousin he had he wasn't allowed to see, and it got rather lonely knowing that his entire family's expectations and hopes rested on him and him alone. While nothing familial would ever really be expected of Harry… the connection was what shone the brightest for Draco: going from originally being rejected by the icon of the Light, hand refused and turned aside, to having this boy visit his family and referring to his mother and father as "aunt" and "uncle." It was, in a word, a triumph for Draco.

Trying his best to hide just how incredibly pleased his was—not yet as experienced as his father was in hiding his emotions—Draco lightly clapped to summon one of the house elves from the Manor. Dobby appeared, lightly wringing his hands, and the blonde teenager imperiously ordered the elf into clearing off the table and taking things back to his home—leaving Harry, Draco, and his father to then be free to go and meet the Bulgarian Quidditch team.

Finishing up his cup of tea, Mr. Malfoy stood and dusted off his hands. "Well, come along, boys. We have Quidditch World Cup champions to meet."

"Yes, sir!" both Draco and Harry said, excitement over Quidditch allowing their more serious inner musings to at least be temporarily placed to the side. Both stood, following the blonde man's example, and moved around the table so that Dobby could begin taking things back to the Manor. Together, all three headed out, soon enough leaving the pavilion behind as they journey towards the tents where the two teams had made their home for the past week and a half. All three were ushered past the guards who stood at the various entrances—keeping an eye out for rabid fans who would be more likely to hurt the players that they admired than fangasm over them.

It was only several minutes that Draco and Harry were led through the entrance to the Bulgarians' tent, marveling to the players at how large the interior was—large enough for each player to have his or her own cubby area, complete with equipment section and bed, as well as a miniature cafeteria against the far wall and a showering area connected to the main tent by a T-shaped corridor.

"So you both attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?" came the gruff, heavily accented voice of the Bulgarian Seeker. Draco, immersed in a conversation with one of the Chasers, didn't hear the comment, but Harry did. The boy blinked in surprise, turning so that he would then face Viktor Krum.

"We do," Harry said with a brief smile. "I'm surprised that you knew about our school, though."

Krum gave Harry a confused look to that, surprised in turn that this boy apparently didn't know the reason as to why Krum had so immediately pinpointed the school they attended. "Have you not heard the news, then?" the eighteen year-old said, frowning slightly as he looked the two boys up and down. "I would have thought that your Ministry would have announced by now…"

"Announced what?" Harry asked, slightly bemused by the foreigner's round-about way of speaking, silently entertained with how it seemed to take Krum forever to actually get to the point of his conversation. There was no rush for Harry, though, for the boy liked knowing that he was now currently talking to the Seeker who had won this year's Quidditch World Cup, the Seeker who had caught the Golden Snitch right under the Irish's very noses (a situation that the other team probably wouldn't be able to live down for years to come).

The Bulgarian Seeker cleared his throat at that, quirking an eyebrow as he once more looked the two boys up and down. "I am sure that your Ministry will soon enough be announcing it, so there should be no harm in it… Ah. Your school is playing host to the Triwizard Tournament this year. Beauxbatons Academy of Magic and Durmstrang Institute... we are coming to stay, to Hogwarts, in October."

That, however, managed to finally catch Draco's attention.

"_No way!_" the blonde boy breathed, eyes silvery bright with interest, abruptly leaving his conversation with the Bulgarian Chaser so that he could give Harry and Krum his full attention. "Are you sure? Because no one thought that the Tournament would ever really be revived ever again; the Triwizard Tournament hasn't been done since 1792!"

Harry glanced over at Draco at that, gaze quizzical. "Why so long?" the boy asked, curious. This Tournament seemed like it was an exceptionally big deal—and now Harry began to wonder at Draco's father's work that had been dealing with France and the apparent ease in which he was able to introduce his son and "nephew" to the Bulgarian team—and it was interesting, as well, that Harry had never before heard of it. So why…?

To that, the blonde just absently shrugged. "The death toll got too high."

Harry blinked.

_Well, then._

_

* * *

_

_Author's Note:_ Yes, I know that it was Ireland that won the Quidditch World Cup and Krum only managed to catch the Snitch, but… well. I'm changing things. Because I want to. So there. ;P Also, I know that a fair amount of you have questions about the story. I can't take the time to answer everything here—and, besides, some of the questions will be important later on in the story—but if you're truly curious, you're more than welcome to email me and ask away. You can get in contact with me at: miss[dot]silvered[dot]tongue[at]gmail[dot]com Just remember, though, that I won't be able to answer _everything _since I do want to leave plenty of surprises in store for future events! ;)


	10. Chapter 10

_Author's Note:_ Just wanted to give you all a warning in that updates _really will_ be coming much slower for this story. (Really. I mean it this time! *coughs*) I've started on another story, _Jörmungandr _(which will be a _Tom Riddle Jr._/Harry Potter story, actually), and I intend to alternate between the two stories in regards to updating with new chapters. Also, let me adorn my pimpin' hat for just a moment: for those of you who haven't yet had the chance to read _Words Fail_ by Nea Marika, you have _no idea_ that you're missing out on an _incredible_ story. *gushgushgush* I would highly advise for you to take the time to read it as soon as possible. Like, _now_. Or, well, after you're done reading this update. :D Anyway: this chapter is super short, but it needed to stand on its own because of the importance that it has for everything that follows after. Future chapters will also be making up for this one's shortness, as well—page count will be ranging anywhere from 15-20+ from this point on.

* * *

**CHAPTER TEN**

Draco's home had countless numbers of rooms, each with a variety of different purposes. However, no matter how many rooms the Malfoy heir continued to show his friend, one single fact remained the same: Harry could easily pinpoint his favorite place in Malfoy Manor.

It was the library.

Once Draco, his father, and Harry had arrived back at the Manor after Krum's surprising reveal, the raven-haired boy had begged off Draco's offer of activities, stating that he was a bit tired from the activities of the past several days, and asked if it would be all right if he could have some time alone to recoup his energy. It actually wasn't that strange of a request since, at times, Harry would disappear from sight for an hour or two. Despite the friendship that he had with Hermione and Draco both, the years with the Dursleys had trained Harry well—and, when he could, the boy tended to keep to himself, holding his secrets and many of his thoughts close. Harry was, truthfully, used to being alone; in the Muggle world, he would have been described as an introvert—though comfortable enough to adopt extroverted traits when necessary—but the Slytherin still preferred to have some time to himself, especially when it was necessary to mull something over.

He used this time to settle into the library, considering several things that he had learned: the new knowledge regarding the Death Eaters' policies, their purpose in being created, perhaps even Voldemort's original intentions (before anger and hate and, most importantly, _fear_ had gotten hold of the Dark Lord and his followers, taking root deep within their psyche). Now, too, Harry knew that it was time to finally really and truly contemplate what it meant to be associating with the Malfoys, to be Slytherin—considering the things that he had always before taken for granted or assumed that he would never again have to really think about. But… that had been such a silly expectation. There was no choice and now was the time that Harry needed to consider these many things that he had been putting aside, not wanting to think about them. Out of sight, out of mind—or so Harry had thought, but he realized now that it had been a naïve one, and one that wouldn't have lasted that long, anyway.

However, even if Harry decided to put all of his concerns aside to mull over on another day, perhaps when he had more time to consider just what his newfound knowledge entailed, there was still one aspect that connected all of these things together, and that was something that could _not_ be dismissed this day. Harry had been putting it off for too long, especially after Tom's loss.

It was time to seriously contemplate the Dark Arts.

Harry lay curled up in one of the many alcoves that were scattered throughout the ancient room, body wrapped around one of the oldest books that remained within the library. It had been easy enough to find, what with the heady scent of _Dark_ that it gave off. The book must have been in the Malfoy library for countless upon countless of generations, each new one sitting at the previous' knee to learn of the magic that the family was soon famous for. And here, Harry knew, was one of their Darkest books.

_Abyssus Abyssum Invocat_.

_Hell Calls Hell_, Harry thought, expression pensive. _How apt_.

The Slytherin's fingers caressed lightly over the spine of the book; he hadn't opened it, not yet—or perhaps not ever, depending on what he decided within the next several minutes. It was this time, this contemplation, that Harry _knew_ would then form the foundation of his moral standing, perhaps for the rest of his life. He had used the spells from his branch of magic lightly in the past: had voraciously eaten the knowledge that he had garnered from the Restricted Section. Thoughtlessly, he had done what he had wanted, what he had desired—and there had been no consideration, none at all, for the possible ramifications of _knowing_ what he did, of _practicing_ it.

But there were always ramifications; there were always consequences.

The conversations that he had begun to have with Tom—before Dumbledore had taken away the diary—had _forced_ Harry to see that there was a moral line that he had been repeatedly crossing without a care. He had taken what the Sorting Hat had said and had foolishly applied it to whatever he wanted. Intention, after all, came from the person—but a person was the one who chose to wield a tool: the tool was just that, a tool, and was what it was. Its nature was unique to itself, but the choice lay all in the person who first reached out to grasp it.

A person may decide to defend another—that was their original _intention_; but it was that person's choice to pick up either the staff or the gun. Both tools could be used in defense, but one was much more benign than the other. And the gun… The gun's entire purpose was to harm: to injure or kill, there was no middle ground with that particular tool.

So.

Which did Harry want to choose? Would he reach for the staff? Or would he reach for the gun? Both weapons _could_ harm, but one was much more likely to do so than the other. His _intention_ could be whatever he wanted it to be, but the inclination towards one tool or the other also, in the end, would affect that inclination, that intention: he could want to go good things, great things. But, _in the end_, the tool that he would wield would also influence how he went about things.

The metaphor was simple, almost pointlessly so.

But, oh, the choices that they represented were so incredibly important; with this decision, there would be no going back. His choice would be made, and Harry knew himself well enough to realize that he would continue down the pathway that he would soon choose, come hell or high water. This was the crux, the turning point.

Harry's breath shuddered out slightly, and he leaned forward to lightly rest his forehead against the comforting coolness of the glass of the window. The metaphor was simple, too simple in a way, and Harry regretfully put it aside to force himself to consider the options that truly lay before him.

Would he put aside learning about the Dark Arts to follow the Light, like his parents had and the generations of Potters before them? Would he finally let go of the knowledge that he had gained from Tom to stick to the learning, the spells that most of the wizarding world considered acceptable? It would be a dry existence, true, but one where he would find solace in so many others who had followed the same path. He could have the intention to be _great _through acceptable means, through Light magic.

Or Harry could decide to make his way down the opposite pathway: he could finally put aside the lingering misgivings he had retained in regards to practicing the Dark Arts. He could welcome learning Black magic with open arms, taking in what he could and deciding _himself_ what he wanted to do with his newfound knowledge.

And yet:

If he decided upon this path, Harry could no longer lie to himself about the nature of that very magic that called to him with a Siren's sweet song. There was… a taint, an almost oily residue that clung to his magical core each and every time he used a Dark Arts spell. It dimmed the brightness, making the core much more muted than it was before. It wasn't damage, per se—not in the regular sense. Harry's magic was as strong as ever, even before he had first started practicing the gray-shaded Dark spells, but… it _did_ affect him. And Harry knew, too, that that change would be permanent. The dimming had already occurred, as slight as it currently was. If he decided upon this, there really _would_ be no turning back.

It was all or nothing.

_Haaarry…_

The boy shivered at the barely-audible whisper, eyes falling shut as the slightly bitter taste of dark chocolate slowly filled his mouth, lingering upon his tongue in an almost deliciously sinful way. _Haaarry…_ the voice whispered again, and the Potter heir finally allowed his eyes to open: staring at his reflection from the window, Harry watched in an almost dispassionate manner as a shade of mahogany-stained red crept into the verdant green of his irises, lingering briefly around his pupils before finally fading from sight. The boy gave another shiver at that, muffling a soft sound of distress and fright—and, at that, the taste of dark chocolate lingered just a bit longer. However, despite it all, despite the faint sense of trepidation, of insecurity as to whether or not this was the truly right choice:

It was with a steady hand that Harry reached down and finally opened the ancient tome.

Harry had made his decision.

Now, there was no turning back. Not ever.


	11. Chapter 11

_Author's Note:_ Apologies for the delay in me getting this out. I got distracted with watching _The Reduced Shakespeare Company's_ _The Complete Works of Shakespeare Abridged_. XD From this point on, however, _Paradise Lost_ will be updated on Saturdays and _Jörmungandr _on Wednesdays. Also, before I get this next chapter started, I wish to put the pimpin' hat on once more, this time for _Elective Affinities_, by Caecelia. It's been an absolutely amazing story thus far, and the writer's Snape is… so incredibly Snape-y. Probably the most IC Snape I've ever read. It's an utterly wonderful read, and I hope that you all will take the chance to give it a try. I promise that you won't be disappointed. *hearts* And, finally, because I've gotten so many questions asking about this particular issue within _PL_: No, we haven't seen the last of Diary!Tom. (And he's rather miffed that some of you are worried that _Dumbledore_ of all people offed him. *laughs*)

* * *

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

Cause and effect.

The world weighed itself through each element, one circling to the other, forever intertwined, forever linked: a circular pattern that could never truly be broken because one aspect could not exist without the other: a butterfly takes off from the very edge of a flower's petal in Nepal and Atlantis crumbles, and gasps its last breath before sinking beneath the greedily hungry waves of the sea.

_Cause and effect._

One connected to the other, twisted into the impossibly complex Celtic knot of infinity.

* * *

Draco ended up leaving Harry be for several hours, but the boy's boredom—per usual—got the better of him in the end. It was an hour before supper that the blonde teen went adventuring through his own home to look for his friend and, to his lack of surprise, the boy found the dark-haired Slytherin in the library. However, while Harry's location did not come as a shock, the book that was in his hands _did_.

"_Where_ did you find that? _How _did you find that? It should have been impossible for you to _read _it!" Draco said, stumbling slightly when he caught sight of the tome's title. The Grimoire had been in his family for generations—ever since the first Malfoy had left Brittany behind to make a new home within the magic-saturated isle. The tome had been his family's best-kept secret, the one book that the Aurors never managed to find despite the sporadic raids that the Ministry still occasionally conducted upon the estate.

Thinking that Draco was acting perhaps a little bit overdramatic, Harry quirked an eyebrow and glanced up from his reading, gaze slightly hazy from the magic that seeped out from each and every page; he didn't bother moving too fast, knowing that the suddenness would just make him dizzy—would probably, with his luck, cause him to pass out.

"The book was easy to find," Harry informed the blonde, tone frank. "It told me where it was, after all."

Draco stared. "…it's a _book_."

Harry stared back and slowly let his brow quirk just a bit higher. "A _book_ that has been steeped in _magic_ for nearly two thousand years. It's fed off of your family's lineage for generations—haven't you ever paid attention to how it feels? It's practically sentient."

While Harry's argument might have been logical and concise—and perhaps it did have a point—there was still one flaw in it, and Draco was more than happy to point it out. "Maybe. But that's the _Malfoy_ family's _grimoire_. You shouldn't be able to _open_ it, let alone _read_ it." Knowing that his father wouldn't be pleased with knowing that an outsider was learning about the Dark Arts that the Malfoys had kept close to their chests for years upon years, Draco reached out so that he might take the ancient tome from his friend's hands.

And then was immediately stung by the book's bindings.

Yelping, Draco jumped back in surprise and horror, fingers childishly coming up to his mouth so that he could suck away the sting. It… it had _bit_ him! The bloody book had _attacked_ him! _Him_, of all people! Amused by his friend's antics, Harry snorted and shrugged a shoulder. "I _did_ tell you that it liked me."

"Yeah, well. It can bugger off," Draco said with a scowl, to which Harry laughed and the tome spat a fat green spark at its family's heir. The blonde jumped slightly in surprise at the almost intelligent—though silent—remark upon his comment, and promptly edged away.

It was… strange. He had studied from the book several times before, typically during the summer holidays and when his father had had time to sit down with the boy next to him; Draco had never been allowed to turn the pages—always, _always_, it had been the Malfoy patriarch. It had forever remained tame beneath his father's touch, and the fact that it was lively in Harry's hold—that it actually _responded_, and _negatively_ at that!, to a Malfoy…

It frightened Draco.

Concerned him, too, most definitely.

As Harry watched the thoughts fly over Draco's face, the fear that settled deep in the back of his gaze, the raven-haired Slytherin just smiled slightly. Gesture nonchalant, he placed the grimoire down upon one of the pillows scattered about the alcove that he had claimed for his own, and the book almost seemed to _sigh_ longingly as he took his touch away from it. The sound—the _sound_—made Draco shiver slightly, and he met Harry's gaze as the boy, his friend, unfolded himself from his lanky sprawl.

The pureblooded wizard stared at the other, and a thought swam to the forefront of his mind, lingering as the moment stretched on and Harry continued to meet his gaze with his own verdant green one.

_What are you?_

Draco knew that Harry was special, but…

But.

"Come, Draco. Supper will be held soon, and it would be rude of us to keep your parents waiting," Harry said suddenly as he broke the terse silence that settled between the two boys. Not knowing what he should say in reply except an agreement—what else was one to do, after all?—Draco nodded and followed closely at Harry's heels as the dark-haired Slytherin led them both out of the library.

Draco followed after Harry Potter, and the heir could not understand what had changed within the other boy that made a small frisson of fear trickle down Draco's spine as the green-eyed Slytherin glanced over his shoulder to give the other teen a small smile. No, Draco didn't know _what_ had changed—

But he was intelligent enough to realize that something _had_.

* * *

The dreams hadn't come in such a long time, and Harry had begun to wonder if any of it had truly been _real_. The dark silhouette that draped itself over him, a phantasm-sleek gauze that veiled the world from his eyes. The whispers had remained, yes—but oftentimes so soft that the Slytherin thought them aspects of his imagination.

_Lies_, he knew instinctively, but lies told to make himself feel better.

But, oh, this night the dreams returned—the primordial forest left behind, spinning gracelessly beneath Harry as the boy flew and fell, falling _falling_ and falling further much like Lucifer had when he had been exiled from Heaven: tossed out and tumbling recklessly down, down, _down_. The stars above pinwheeled and the lights of towns and villages and cities below spun dizzily until earth merged with heaven and heaven with earth, eternity stretching out into one breathless moment.

_Haaarry…_

_Come, Haaarry…_

_Heed my call, Haaarry, before it is too late for you…_

_Before it is too late for me._

_Haaarry…_

The tumbling, twirling, spinning chaos stopped—and the universe held its breath in bated anticipation—and Harry met quietly glowing hellfire eyes, eyes the color of the blood that beat within his breast. Red, those eyes, scarlet as heart's blood… his scar throbbed, stinging for less than a second before delicious heat spread through his body. There was a call, an urge that the boy knew that he should resist... and yet couldn't bring himself to care: it was dancing with fire, this danger, and it was a dance that Harry craved to indulge himself in.

It was just a single, curious thought, but Harry reached out to caress his mind against the stranger's.

There was a trembling from the other at the sensation, and the fact that Harry was reaching out—there was a muted gasp, the echoing of an arched body, and a sibilant hiss threaded through Harry's consciousness to draw the boy in closer.

_Come to me, Haaarry…_

The touch of fingertips against his throat, a barest glide of skin against skin that came up to trace along the sleeping boy's jawline: a brush against the cupid's bow of Harry's bottom lip—and it was that last touch that caused the Slytherin to draw away, lashes finally lifting so that he might open his eyes to look upon a midnight-kissed bedroom.

Not all was as Harry had expected, however:

The dark silhouette, the one that Harry had thought that he had seen before—truly had, what with this evidence before him—hovered over his prone body, what would have been the thing's hands braced on either side of his head. The boy stilled, a frisson of fear sliding up his spine, but the phantasm leaned in closer still. A velveteen chuckle purred its way through the shadowed corners of the room, lingering temptingly, and the ebon-dark silhouette settled lower.

A brief touch of lips against the lightning shape of Harry's scar—

His name, whispered in a voice that filled the boy with the scent of darkest chocolate—

And the first faint stirring of interest, subdued in the beginning, from the green-eyed Slytherin as the briefest hint of a solid weight pinned his body to the mattress beneath him before the night-visiting creature finally faded from view. He _felt_ the warmth of another person, _felt_ how the bed dipped from the weight at his side, _felt _the masculine chest pressed snugly against his own…

When he knew himself completely alone once more, Harry rolled onto his side and brought his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms snugly about the knobby bones as the teen wiggled his body beneath the warmth of the comforter. That… _that _had not been a dream. He had been _awake_, had his eyes open through it all. The touch had been real, and the touch—that seemingly innocent kiss—had caught his interest in a way that Harry had never before experienced.

Shifting beneath the covers and bringing one hand up from its clasp at his knees, Harry smoothed his fingertips over his mouth, imitating the touch that had lingered there for just a moment. Curious now, the boy increased the pressure just a bit more, but…

It didn't feel the same. And Harry didn't like the difference.

_Haaarry…_

Shivering, Harry closed his eyes tight and burrowed further beneath the covers, pulling them up and over his head so that he could go back to sleep in the warm, heavy cocoon that the blankets provided. The not-dream offered much food for thought, but… not was not necessarily the time to think about such things—or to remember how they _felt_, the more dangerous of the two options.

_Haaarry… You will come to me. Soon._

_

* * *

_

The rest of Harry's visit with the Malfoys passed by comfortably enough; Harry alternated his time in a variety of ways: he spent plenty of time in the purebloods' library, drinking in his fill of knowledge that the Hogwarts library refused to offer its students—Harry learned much from the grimoire, and Lucius Malfoy had taken to watching Harry read from it; the blonde man never announced his presence when he did so, but Harry knew that he was there all the same.

Harry could feel him, remaining—lingering—there in the shadows, hidden from view as the patriarch watched his guest turn page after page, learning his family's secrets, ones that no one else had ever been gifted with learning. The very fact that the grimoire had allowed Harry's touch—had somehow _called_ the boy to it—was a frightening aspect of Harry's research. It made the aristocrat wonder how it was even possible, for this had truly been a thing of _impossibilities_.

Draco's thought was often echoed in the mind of his father:

_What are you?_

But no answers were forthcoming.

Thus, Harry spent his time reading and learning during the moments that he claimed for himself away from Draco; they were never for very long because, if nothing else, the Slytherin boy had learned how to be a perfect houseguest. At other times, too, Harry spent his time outdoors with the blonde heir. They played a Seeker's game, one boy against the other in countless not-so-friendly matches (Slytherin House, after all, prided itself on ambition and neither boy was willing to give in to the other; _losin_g was not an option either contemplated or considered), and Draco also took the time to teach Harry how to ride a Winged horse.

Loki had been a beautiful, thoughtful gift, and the moment when Harry had spurred the stallion into a flat-out gallop before squeezing his knees in the signal for the horse to unfurl his wings—the muscles stretching and bunching beneath his thighs, working powerfully as those wings spread _further still_ before suddenly beating down and _lifting_ them both into the air… That moment had been frozen in time for Harry, and it was one of those very few moments that he could purposefully look back on and think "that was perfection."

Many of his days at Malfoy Manor were lazy, most of them spent in the company of Draco or his mother or father. Besides Draco himself, Harry found early on that he loved spending time with "Aunt Narcissa": the woman was always quietly composed, effortlessly graceful as she walked arm in arm with him through the gardens, voice a murmuring lilt as she spoke lightly of pureblood manners and history, the traditions that had been lost to so many. She told him stories—the origins for many of the traditions that only the oldest, purest wizarding families still celebrated.

She whispered stories of Midsummer, and Harry spent that night beneath a full moon, spread out upon the grass as the constellations traipsed across the sky, frolicking in thoughtless contentment until dawn blushed upon the horizon.

It was an idyll visit, one filled with knowledge and activity and surrounded by the comfort of a pseudo-family: one that didn't completely comprehend him, but one that still saw value in and appreciated his company in many different ways.

The Minister visited, too, blustering and proud and pompous, so enamoured with Harry Potter and the Malfoy family's patriarch in his role within the pureblood community—a community that Minister Fudge so desperately wanted to be part of but could never fit into.

Political and ambitious, he _craved_ the reputation that came with "old money," and hoped that, one day, that reputation and perception would eventually rub off on him through his association with Lucius Malfoy—and that, with his proximity to Harry Potter, his fame and popularity as Minister would rise exponentially once word got out about their "connections."

Harry thought him a fool and a blind one at that.

But the Minister's visits aside, the summer visit with the Malfoys had gone wonderfully, and Harry returned to Hogwarts and Professor Snape's direct guardianship much more relaxed than he had been in ages. Unfortunately, however, the Potions Master decided that proper thanks in allowing Harry his small vacation could only be truly repaid through more assistant work in the lab.

…which meant preparing more Potions ingredients, both for Professor Snape's personal stores, but also for the upcoming classes. Harry, on the other hand, had decided that his Head of House just preferred the chance to get free labor during the summer—free labor that couldn't complain about being used since the Potions Master was the _free labor's_ guardian (and thus, under his thumb).

Still:

Things could have been a lot worse.

With the discovery of the abuse that Harry had been given at the hands of his relatives, Professor Snape had… gentled… in his handling of Harry. Not to say that the man was careful and coddling and forever asking about Harry's _feelings_, but the bullying had ceased (though the shameless exploitation of Harry's helping in the lab had _not_). When the two of them were alone and companionable silence had stretched between the two for long periods of time, it wasn't at all awkward to break that silence with idle conversation—occasionally just a question or two before Harry returned to silently cutting or chopping or whatever else the Slytherin Head of House wanted from him.

It was during such a period, not long before school was supposed to start, that Harry glanced at his professor from the corner of his eyes and finally asked what had been on his mind since the Quidditch World Cup.

"Sir, why hasn't there been any official announcement regarding the upcoming Tournament?"

Professor Snape's hands stilled for just a moment, and the hawk-nosed man glanced sidelong at his young charge. "Did Lucius tell you of it while you were staying with the Malfoys?"

Harry snorted at that, shaking his head. "No, 'Uncle Lucius' didn't tell either me or Draco of the Tournament directly. But there were hints—mostly with the new horses that he just had imported from France—and I'm smart enough, sir, to realize that our meeting with the Bulgarian Quidditch team, particularly Viktor Krum, went exactly as he had expected. But, anyway: why hasn't the Headmaster made an official announcement regarding the Tournament?"

The Slytherin Head of House sneered at that, his estimation of his ward falling in his eyes. He thought that James Potter's brat would have at least grown a brain in all of his time in Slytherin—but, perhaps Mr. Potter wasn't that different from his father in that he mewled unhappily when he didn't get the things that he wanted.

With the ease of too many hours of association with one another, Harry sensed the shift in Professor Snape's thoughts, and the teenage boy scowled angrily up at his professor and guardian. "I _meant_, sir, that it doesn't seem very fair that the other two schools know of the tournament—and, thus, have time to _train their students into becoming champions_. We're the hosting school and yet most of the student body doesn't have a clue as to what's going to happen. It not only doesn't seem very _fair_, but it also seems like a rather… foolish… choice on the Headmaster's part. How will Hogwarts otherwise prepare for the upcoming tasks?"

Professor Snape snorted quietly at that. "Apparently sheer talent and tenacity will be enough to win the Tournament in Hogwarts' favor—or so the Headmaster believes, I think."

Harry considered that for a moment, head tilted to the side as he mulled over his professor's words. Finally, though, he nodded and returned back to the potions ingredients before him. "Ah, so the Headmaster thinks that we don't have a chance at winning at all."

"Precisely," came the low reply from the tall man at his side.

The boy didn't bother to hide his amused snort, and soon enough returned to the project before him. Silence again fell between the two Slytherins, each immersing himself in his own task, and Harry couldn't help but be highly entertained at the irony presented to him: just how far had Hogwarts' curriculum fallen in that its own Headmaster had no faith in his student population?

_How the mighty have fallen_, Harry thought to himself as he chopped off the top part of the wriggling Bubotuber, listening to the satisfying _thunk_ as the blade connected to the wood of the table beneath the plant. It wasn't that hard after that to place all thoughts of the Triwizard Tournament behind him since it was readily apparent that no one honestly thought that Hogwarts stood a chance. _How the mighty have fallen, indeed._

Five hours later, with a back that ached dully from constantly being hunched over, Harry was finally dismissed from the potions lab; the boy headed down several corridors until he finally got to the Slytherin living quarters. The password for the summer had remained the same—unchanged since not only was Harry the only one living in the dorms, but he and the portrait of Salazar Slytherin had agreed to make the password in Parseltongue.

»Grendel,« Harry hissed with a roll of his eyes when Salazar just smirked in answer. Still, however, the Founder allowed his portrait to swing forward, opening the House's quarters for Harry.

It was such a grand joke to the Slytherin Founder now, after months of hearing Harry speak Parseltongue, but that hadn't always been the case—not originally, when Harry had first suggested the password.

"Let it be _Grendel_," the boy had said with a slight shrug of his shoulders, body language nonchalant—but Salazar Slytherin knew better than to take things at face value, especially from his Snakes: he saw the furtive glance that Harry had darted at him when the boy thought that the Founder was adequately surprised.

Instead, the green-eyed man just slowly smiled, inclining his head at the boy as his Quetzalcoatl twined its way about the ancient wizard's shoulders. »You have been in the Chamber of Secrets.« It had been a statement, not a question.

The feathered serpent stilled at that, turning its colorful head to look upon the child that was the second one who had stumbled upon its Master's Chamber. »You do not look as if you're from the Slytherin line,« it hissed dubiously, head tilting to the side so that it could better inspect Harry with one strikingly pink eye. »The other boy most definitely showed the Blood Traits. _You_, however...«

_Glaring_ at the creature and just _daring_ it to continue on with that particular thought, Harry crossed his arms over his chest. »Blood Traits or not, I'm still a Parselmouth and I _have_ been down in the Chamber of Secrets.« He paused for a moment at that and, surprisingly enough, the raven-haired boy turned his disapproving gaze to the original Head of his House. »It wasn't kind of you to leave the basilisk behind. It's been terribly lonely.«

The Founder shrugged absently at that. »I had no choice.«

»There's always a choice,« Harry snapped, irritated, and brushed past the portrait so that he might head up to his bedroom. Salazar Slytherin, surprisingly, allowed Harry to go without attempting to stop the boy—the portrait, did, though, stare after the child until the Slytherin was no longer in sight.

»The child is intriguing,« the Quetzacoatl commented before allowing its coils to tighten briefly about its Master, curious about this not-heir, the child who so fluently spoke its language.

»He is, at that,« Salazar Slytherin murmured absently, reaching up to gently scratch at the base of the serpent's bright plumage. The creature seemed to purr at that, though the sound eventually shifted to a low chuckle.

»He is not at all like the other child, the one that came before, either.«

The Founder laughed at that. »No, he isn't,« the wizard agreed, letting his fingers linger idly in a caress at the base of the Quetzacoatl's head. »But, then again, dear one, perhaps that is a good thing.«

»Perhaps,« came the agreement, and the two old acquaintances stepped out of their portrait to make their way elsewhere, leaving behind an empty painting for the current Head of House to find, frustrated at the fact that he was now barred from his Snake's living quarters—or, well, until Salazar returned, anyway.

Weeks had passed since that first incident, however: the day that the students had left en masse from Hogwarts, though they would soon enough be returning once more in just several more days: the summer holidays had passed so much more quickly than ever before, and Harry knew that he would miss the solitude that he had been granted, the privilege of keeping to himself unless he wanted Professor Snape's company.

But—no more.

Soon, the halls would be filled with the bustle and chatter of students from all years, and the ancient corridors of Hogwarts would be filled to the brim with the incoming students from the two foreign schools: so many children, so many students, so much life that Harry knew he would be claustrophobic for at least the first week of classes.

Annoying, true, but the boy knew that it wouldn't take long to once more get used to being surrounded by life, by lively talk and sidelong glances as he made his way from class to class or from his dormitory to the Great Hall. They were glances, furtive sneak peeks that had plagued him for all three previous years—and Harry hoped that fourth year would be time enough for the population to have gotten tired of him.

But the Slytherin knew better, especially with how each incoming first year classes always made sure to stare at him with dunce-like, overly impressed _awe_. "It's Harry Potter!" the little idiots would hiss to one another. "It's the Boy-Who-Lived! He really does exist! I definitely have to write home to Mum about this!"

If only hexing eleven year-olds wasn't seen as bad form.

Thus, knowing that the upcoming week would have him in a foul mood, Harry did his best to prepare himself, hoping that being braced would at least make the affects not quite as strong—as irritating—as years previous, but from the amused glances that Professor Snape kept shooting his way, the boy knew that he was far from successful.

And so the last remaining days of Harry's summer holidays were spent with the boy wound as tense and as tight as a tight, muscles locked tight in irritated anticipation as the start of the fall term began to inch its way closer. Perhaps the only thing that happened to be his saving grace (and thus, Professor Snape protected his own sanity from the moody teenager, as well as continued to stock up on his own personal stores) was that the last couple of days were spent in the potions lab, whacking at things with a dangerously heavy mallet.

_Whack whack whack_ went the weapon over the hours of the last hours, the last days.

And _crunch crunch crunch_ went the hapless potions ingredients, pulverized into satisfyingly tiny smithereens.

_Gloat gloat gloat_ went Professor Snape on the night before the students' arrival as he stood in the entrance of his personal potions ingredients collection, his "private stash" used for his own experiments and brewing: never before had his stock been so thoroughly full.

It was already shaping up to be an excellent start of a new school year, even with the looming threat of returning dunderheads.

* * *

There was an assessing coolness in Draco's gaze when he and Harry met up once again that brought an unanticipated stinging kind of _hurt_ to the green-eyed boy's chest when the other glanced at it, only gave a brief nod, and made his way past to head to the Slytherin Table.

The subtle distancing, the snub that came with it—what with Harry's time with the Malfoys, the boy didn't understand the reason _why_. In earlier years, the exchange would have been considered normal for the both of them—but that hadn't been true for a while now.

Feeling at a loss and wondering what had changed between "Good-bye" and "Hello," Harry stared after Draco. He was… confused. At a loss, a feeling that he hadn't had to feel in ages, and Harry couldn't stop the way that his fingers curled in towards his palms as he fought to get himself under control.

The exchange took less than a minute, and no one noticed the slight flicker of unreadable emotion that made its way over Harry's face for a moment only before was abruptly banished and gone. No one noticed, no one saw—and no one would have cared, anyway, except for the two people that Harry considered friends.

"Harry!" a bushy-haired, blushing bundle of girl cried out as the Gryffindor launched herself through the air to tumble happily into Harry's arms. "I've missed you _so_ incredibly much this summer and you really _do_ need to write more—everything that you have told me in letters seem so _drab_ as to what I've read in the newspapers about you and your activities and why didn't you _tell me_ that you had been invited to the _Quidditch World Cup_? I bet that the game went spectacularly well, though I really do think that you shouldn't attempt that Wonky-Faint thing during matches this coming year—it doesn't seem very safe, after all, and—"

Hermione was abruptly cut off as Harry put his hand over his mouth, temporarily silencing his best friend. Amused at the fact that Hermione was always able to say so much without ever really needing to breathe, the dark-haired boy leaned down and pressed an affectionate kiss to the girl's cheek. Immediately, Hermione's blush deepened to epic proportions, her entire face aflame.

"I'm missed you, too, 'Mione," Harry said simply before his arm came around and his hand settled at the small of her back. "We can catch up a bit more later on—for now, it's been a long day and it's time to watch the new Sorting Ceremony."

In a surprisingly submissive gesture, Hermione allowed Harry to lead her to the Great Hall—but the Gryffindor was still very much herself, shown by how she tucked herself against her best friend's side, glancing up at Harry with a sly expression that she had adopted completely from him.

"I heard that you met the Minister this summer, Harry…"

The boy stared down at his friend for a moment, bemused, and finally shook his head—fully aware of where Hermione was going to try to lead this to. "You're smart enough to get your own Ministry internships," he informed her, smirking slightly.

Hermione sighed, to which Harry just laughed. "Why, Hermione—using a friend's connections to try and further your own," he teased the girl, reaching over and gently tugging on the red and gold tie that was neatly knotted at the hollow of her throat. "If I didn't know any better, these colors don't show your true inner nature~"

The girl sniffed at that, flouncing off playfully. "Yes, well, but green doesn't flatter my complexion _at all_." And Harry just laughed, knowing that this side of the girl was one that only he ever had the privilege, the right, in seeing this silly, relaxed side of the otherwise overly serious, bookish girl.

To thank her for trusting him, Harry once more leaned forward and pressed another kiss to her cheek. "You shouldn't lie, 'Mione," he chided her. "You look beautiful in any color."

Upon hearing those words, Hermione's face _immediately_ flamed with color, and the girl scurried off towards the Gryffindor Table so that he could hide amongst fellow yearmates, utterly embarrassed that Harry had said something so… so… _like that_ to her! Her palms came up to cover her burning cheeks, hoping to cool them before anyone noticed the bright color and attempted to quiz her on what the _Famous Harry Potter_ must have said to her to have made Hermione blush so harshly.

Huddled amongst the other Gryffindors, Hermione tried her best to put Harry's teasing comment out of mind; instead, she happily embraced the distraction that the Sorting Ceremony offered up, clapping politely no matter the first year's House—though the girl did tend to clap a bit louder when a first year was sent to Gryffindor.

Everything seemed normal: the start of a new school year, classes with her best friend, new things to learn (though, of course, the girl had greedily read everything in her textbooks already, fully looking forward to answering as many questions as possible).

It wasn't until the Welcoming Feast was coming to a close that things changed from the norm. Albus Dumbledore stood, making his way around the Head Table so that he might stand before his favorite podium. The candles that were lit on either side of the carved griffon's spread wings deepened the creases of his face, bringing an air of mystery to the Hogwarts Headmaster: making, somehow, the twinkle in his eyes that much stronger as he looked out over the collected student body.

"This year, children," the man began, voice cutting through all noise and encouraging the students to slowly quiet and once more direct their attention to him, "Hogwarts has been privileged to lay host to a _legendary_ event. For many years now, this event has not been in practice—but this year, oh, _this year_, children, we will once more be able to bring back the Triwizard Tournament." If anything, Dumbledore's twinkle became unbearable to look at, and Harry grimaced slightly and looked down at the plate before him, tracing the golden edge with his eyes. "Eternal glory awaits the winner of this Tournament—fame, fortune, and wealth. The winner's name will go down in history, a Champion for others to emulate forever more."

Whispers began then, students and friends hissing curiously to one another: together, all of the sound became so much like a den of snakes that Harry had to silence his derisive snort, though Zambia felt the stifled sound. Curious, the snake tightened her body around her "familiar," questioning Harry as to what he found so funny. »Later,« he murmured to her, promising to explain what was going on that evening—not now, however, since the Headmaster was speaking again.

"Because of this Tournament, Hogwarts will be the home of the two other participating schools for this upcoming school year. Now, I all expect you to treat them like family: welcome them to our hallowed halls, help them if they are in need of it. Make this a home away from home for them. While the Champion will gain eternal glory, you all will have the chance to gain something even more precious, one that will last your entire lifetime: true friendship. Now, before I let you all run off to bed to gossip about this news amongst yourselves like the dear little magpies that I know you all capable of being, I would like to make several very important announcements about this Tournament: Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving here to make themselves comfortable in one month's time. Champions from each school will be picked impartially from the Goblet of Fire; all those who wish to enter must do so before Halloween Night, for that is the evening that the names will be selected. And, finally, with the danger that this Tournament represents, a new rule has been put in place: No one under the age of sixteen will be allowed to compete."

This announcement brought about a fair amount of booing from a large part of the student population, and Dumbledore willingly put up with the reaction for a moment or two before roaring out a firm, "_Silence!_" Abruptly, all sound ceased and many of the students stared up at their elderly Headmaster with wide, surprised eyes. Most had never, _ever _heard him raise his voice before.

When he was certain that he had the students' attention, Dumbledore smiled softly and gestured towards a pedestal. "Behold," the man said, simply, and a thick velvet fabric fell away to reveal the silver, coolly gleaming Triwizard Cup. Gasps were heard, and even Harry had to admit himself intrigued.

Magic vibrated off of the chalice in waves, so thick that Harry found himself momentarily dizzy—surprised, too, that no one else had a similar reaction. Everyone was too caught up by the thought of "eternal glory," the image of them holding up the chalice for everyone else to cheer at. Already, vainglory sickness seemed to be taking root in many of the males—despite being nearly across the entire length of the Hall from him, Harry could distinctively hear Ronald Weasley bragging to Finnigan and Thomas over how he would bribe his brothers into helping him cheat the Age Line so that he could compete.

_Probably buy enough chocolate frogs to rot his teeth out if he won_, Harry thought with a quiet sneer as he finally managed to draw his gaze away from the Triwizard Cup, swallowing roughly to keep himself from sicking up as his vision swam. How could no one else notice the _sheer amount of magic_ that radiated off from the Cup? It was enough to make Harry feel rather faint, especially with the _Dark_ magic that curled 'round the Cup's edges, lingering with a caress that Harry could almost follow with this eyes.

The fact that the Cup was made with at least a bit of Dark magic…

Ah, Harry had to admit himself intrigued (or, at least would be intrigued once he got his stomach under control). When Dumbledore replaced the velvet cloth, the Slytherin boy breathed an almost audible sigh of relief, glad that the magic was finally masked enough for him to once more be able to concentrate.

…not that he much wanted to, considering the fact that the Headmaster was still continuing on about international magical cooperation, bonds that would be forever firmly forged through the foundation of friendship, and a general outline of how the Tournament would be conducted: three tasks that the Champions would be made to compete in, and each task would be graded accordingly out of one hundred points. The person with the highest number of points at the end of the Tournament would, obviously, be the winner.

None of the tasks were to be announced until the day that they would be participated in—yet another rule added in to ensure that cheating had very little chance of happening if none of the Champions knew ahead of time what each task would be.

Each Headmaster (or Headmistress, in the case of Madame Maxime) would be a judge for each task, as well as a Minister-appointed representative for the British Ministry of Magic. Bored at the proceedings, Harry paid very little attention—thinking that, perhaps, the Ministry representative would be Dolores Umbridge. Or maybe Amelia Bones (for general overall strategy and defense demonstrated) or maybe one of the wizards or witches from the N.E.W.T.s committee (to evaluate the spells used during each task).

It wasn't any of these people, however.

With a mouth that was just slightly tight, Headmaster Dumbledore gestured towards the wing that connected to the Great Hall, and Lucius Malfoy stepped out into the open space, pale blonde hair gleaming beneath the hundreds of lit candles. The Malfoy patriarch gave a small, thin-lipped smile to the staring students, inclining his head briefly at Harry and Draco both.

Out of all of the people that the Minister could have picked to represent him—and, thus, the Ministry of Magic that he in turn represented—would be Lucius Malfoy… Harry almost wanted to giggle in amusement, it was that funny, but the thought of _why_ soon enough sobered him up. Why had "Uncle Lucius" agreed in the first place?

It was with a thoughtful frown upon his face that Harry followed after his House mates when the students were finally dismissed from the Great Hall. There was much to think about—and much to anticipate, too, with the knowledge that Durmstrang and Beauxbatons would be swooping down to join Hogwarts in exactly a month's time.

This year was shaping up already to be a rather full, interesting one—lively enough to keep Harry distracted with upcoming celebrations (as well as this Tournament, for which Harry was only relieved that he was too young for anyone to try and pressure him into entering—mostly because his reply would have earned him several different detentions for the hexes and curses he'd cast).

…first, though.

Harry had to find out what it was that had changed with Draco to have made the blonde boy so coolly dismiss him.


	12. Chapter 12

_Author's Note:_ Just as a head's up, I wanted to thank the little sister, brightsun89, and the best friend, M. Hikaru, for putting up with my stressing out about what I wanted to do with the Triwizard Tournament's tasks. I readily admit that I was being overly nitpicky regarding it all, and they both handled it like pros~ XD So thank you, darlings, for loving me despite my being an anal retentive perfectionist. XD *hearts* Also, I've been considering making Playlists for my chaptered stories. If I do so, would you guys be interested in having me upload them to share?

_**WARNING**_ – _I cannot stress this enough:_ This chapter is assigned an "**M**" rating for the scene at the very end. However, don't be expecting anything more for quite a while until Voldemort finally _really_ comes into play. ;P When naughty things start happening on a regular basis, the rating will be going up permanently. ;)

* * *

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

The month that followed the Welcoming Feast was a month that passed by quickly, time streamlining into a river that flowed ever onwards: quickening, almost needlessly so, the closer it came to October 1st.

However, the beginning of the term certainly hadn't gone at all very quickly.

The night that the other students had arrived back at Hogwarts, Harry had approached the surprisingly cold Draco Malfoy, fingers tight around the other boy's bicep as the slighter Slytherin managed to drag the blonde off into an unused classroom on stubbornness alone. When he was sure that they had no observers, Harry had scowled darkly at Draco and then hissed, "What the bloody hell is your problem? We saw each other less than two weeks ago and now you're acting as if I'm less than the scum on the bottom of your shoes. _Less than two weeks ago._ What the hell changed, Draco?"

"You wouldn't understand," the Malfoy heir said in answer, mouth twisting bitterly as he glanced away. It was frustrating enough—this not knowing, the sudden cold dismissal at the hands of someone that Harry had considered a _friend_—that the raven-haired teen was sorely tempted to punch the blonde Slytherin in the nose.

What stung the most, however, came at the knowledge that the friendship that he believed he had with Draco was, perhaps, not truly there: he had spent years growing up without a single person to confide in, had had people chased off by Dudley. Other children had been afraid to approach him and so Harry had dealt with the fact that he had never had a friend once coming to Hogwarts.

That had changed with Hermione, though: and Harry couldn't quite express with words just how incredibly grateful he was to the other girl, in having her in his life. He had thought, as well, that that gratitude would be applied to Draco, but… But _something_ had changed, and it left Harry trying to find footing on uneven, crumbling ground.

The slight curl of Draco's upper lip would have made Harry think that Draco was _jealous_ of him, but what was there to be jealous _of_…?

Hurt and angry at the shift in personality, Harry had pursed his lips and turned on his heel; leaving the Malfoy heir behind, the raven-haired fourteen year-old decided that he would place what happened to the side: leaving the thoughts behind because there wasn't anything that he could do to fix this at this point in time. Draco was too stubborn, especially when he believed that he had been slighted. And he thought himself slighted by the Weasleys enough times that Harry recognized the signs for what they were. The fact still remained, however: Harry didn't know what he did _wrong_.

Disgusted with his contrary friend, the Potter boy finally just gave up for the night and decided that he'd let Draco fend for himself, work out whatever problem he had with Harry at his leisure—hopefully, for Draco's sake, it'd be soon enough if only because the longer that Draco took, the more Harry intended to have the Malfoy grovel for forgiveness.

The loss of Draco's presence, however, reminded Harry rather strongly of the loss that he had suffered when the Dementors had taken Sirius from him: both people that Harry had never thought he'd grow close to, and both people whose lack of presence within his life struck a chord that echoed bitterly with that from his childhood.

He _hated_ them, then, hated them both for reminding him.

It was with an almost harsh twitch of his wrist that the green-eyed teen closed the curtains around his four-poster bed, shutting him away from his roommates' sight. Just wanting to sleep and at least temporarily put his rioting emotions aside. They wouldn't help him right now: how could they, except to make the situation worse, since Harry still didn't know the why as to the change in Draco's behavior.

The boy stripped, movements quick and jerky with restrained annoyance, and Harry tossed his clothes out of the small parting in his curtains, knowing that the House Elves would soon enough be coming by to take his things to be laundered. Thus, nude, Harry collapsed onto his bedsheets and allowed himself to be lost in dreams and in sleep so that he at least might be rested for the first day of classes tomorrow.

After all, it would begin with Double Potions.

* * *

The days that followed patterned themselves in a typically regular form: classes were the same as they always had been—with very little effort spent on Harry's part since he had learned to read ahead during the summer holidays and, besides, he had learned early on that Snape expected nothing less than perfection from his dunderheaded charge.

It wasn't that hard to deliver, besides.

Since his time with the Malfoys at their family home, Harry had noticed that magic was coming much more easier to him. True, the first incident had come with the Cup—but Harry soon enough realized that it had only been the first _noticeable_ incident. It didn't take much longer until the boy realized that that sensitivity applied to other things, other people: Dumbledore was a roaring furnace that smelled of sulfur and rot, lingering upon his tongue like spoiled milk, and the boy's appetite suffered during the meals when the Headmaster made his appearance. The old man was completely unappealing, and Harry had taken to picking a seat as far away from the Head Table as possible.

But it wasn't just Dumbledore's magic that Harry learned that he could smell-see-_taste_: it was other professors, as well, and some of the older students, too. It didn't strike him as unusual that Professor Snape's magic was the most comforting, felt the most like the dark chocolate presence that Harry knew himself addicted it: it wasn't as rich as that other presence, but it was enough to lull the Slytherin child into a sense of contentment—to the point that Harry had begun to help his Head of House in his Potions lab even when he _didn't_ have detention.

And the magic of _Hogwarts_ itself…

Oh, it thrummed with power, the castle's magic seeping deep into his bones and vibrating at levels that Harry could only _feel_. It was the type of power that could only be created over countless numbers of years, a land steeped in and saturated with magic of all flavors: Dark, Gray, Light—none of it mattered to the castle. It was the magic and the intent behind it that brought the place to life.

And, much to Harry's delight, the boy found himself capable of experimenting with and manipulating the magic therein.

The first success had come when Professor Snape had left the lab to go in search for the Bloody Baron so that he could adequately banish Peeves from his workplace. It had taken quite a while for Professor Snape to return—if only because, from time to time, the Bloody Baron disappeared from the castle—and Harry had found himself frustrated and tired of ducking the various things that the poltergeist had begun to throw at his head. Add in the fact that all of those items were expensive Potions ingredients that Harry had slaved away to create during the summer…

Needless to say, Harry's temper snapped.

He _yanked_ at the power that had hovered just beyond his grasp, the power that swayed teasingly at the corners of his eyes, and managed to curl it tight around his fist before flinging it angrily at the annoying creature. "_Stop!_" the verdant-eyed Slytherin had snapped, hand slicing through the air after the power had been thrown.

And Peeves had disappeared with a barely-audible _pop!_, Banished to who knows where—all at Harry's annoyed command. The teen stood there for several long moments, blinking with wide, surprised eyes, and then glanced over to the floating ball of purple-veined magic—magic that was exactly the same type that had saved him in his first year, when the Seeker had been tossed from his broom.

Knowing full well that it was rather foolish to do so, Harry reached out and lightly brushed his fingers over the magic, shivering slightly when it bent and shifted beneath his touch—before finally easing into his body with a barely-audible sigh. Eyes growing wider, Harry rubbed his tingling fingers together, shivering slightly when a spark was spat from his curious caress; there was an explosion of heated power, _pure magic_, and Harry's shaking knees gave out. The boy tumbled down to the floor, and that was exactly how Professor Snape found him when he arrived minutes later with the Bloody Baron in tow.

"Mr. Potter, what are you doing down there?" Professor Snape asked, a brief expression of confusion flickering across his face before it smoothed itself clear: and, once again, he was the composed Head of Slytherin House, frowning slightly down at one of his top students for the disheveled appearance that Harry currently found himself projecting.

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry said; his voice was gravelly and he was able to speak after a moment, clearing his voice with a soft cough. With shaky legs, Harry did manage to get himself to stand. "Peeves hit me with something or other when I looked away—for just a moment, mind—and then when I looked up, the poltergeist was gone."

Professor Snape was about to nod and let that be all. Mouth opening to order Harry to the Infirmary so that Madam Pomfrey could make sure that the boy did not suffer from a concussion from whatever it was that Peeves had hit him with, the Potions Master's teeth clicked together audibly when the Bloody Baron suddenly chuckled.

_The boy is lying, Severus_, the ghost said, smile eerie upon his faintly glowing face.

Harry hissed at the ghost, gesture surprisingly snake-like as Professor Snape flinched, and Harry's glare deepened, annoyed at the fact that the creature had called him on his lie. "All Slytherins lie for some reason or another," he figured that he should point out—hoping, too, that the Bloody Baron wouldn't call him on the reason _why_ he lied.

_That may be true, and yet… Not as often as you do_.

Harry's face closed down at that, thick lashes lowering slightly so that he might veil that bright green of his gaze. "Please excuse me, sir," the teen murmured as he turned his attention to Professor Snape. "I think that I should head up to the Infirmary for the night. My head still aches a bit, and I would like Madam Pomfrey to look at me before I go to finish up my homework for the night. May I please leave, Professor Snape…?"

Not quite knowing what he had missed but determined that he would question the Bloody Baron once Harry was gone, Professor Snape gave the boy a narrow-eyed stare before nodding shortly. "Be sure that you tell her to send me a report on how you are," he ordered before gesturing Harry towards the door of the lab.

"Thank you, sir. I'll see you tomorrow," came the subdued murmur.

The Bloody Baron watched Harry leave with eyes that burned with quiet desire—as power-hungry in death as the ghost had been in life. With fingers that flexed with the desire to follow after Harry, the dead man brought his hand up to his chest, touching his death wound lightly. _Be careful as to what games you find yourself indulging in, Little Snake_, he whispered and, from the look upon Professor Snape's face, Harry knew that he was the only one meant to hear.

Not wanting to acknowledge the fact that he was fully aware of the fact that he was beginning to play with fire—and that, soon enough, he'd be in over his head—Harry shook his head in dismissal and lengthened his stride so that he could leave the room before Professor Snape changed his mind and instead decided to question the cryptic comments that passed between his student and the House ghost.

"Good night, Professor," Harry said quietly before closing the lab's door behind himself.

When the door to the Potions lab closed completely, Harry shivered and crossed his arms over his belly: he debated the wisdom in going to the Infirmary, but… if Professor Snape did _not _receive a chart from Madam Pomfrey to show that he had gone and that he had allowed himself to get checked over, Harry knew that it would cause more trouble than it was worth. Better to just go and allow Madam Pomfrey to look him over—Harry doubted, anyway, that she would find anything remiss.

Thus, with wide, ground-eating steps, Harry headed up to the Infirmary for the pointless visit.

…a visit, he discovered half an hour later, that hadn't been as pointless as he had originally believed. Madam Pomfrey looked him over, starting with his head after he had told his story, but it wasn't until she had taken a look at his magical center that the woman had frowned in concern. "Mr. Potter," she began, reaching out and gently resting her fingers upon his brow. "Have you been practicing some rather strenuous magical exercises outside of class? Your center is exhausted, nearly completely drained."

_That_, of course, took Harry by surprise. "…excuse me?"

Madam Pomfrey gave Harry a Look in response. "You know the rules, Mr. Potter, so there's no need to play innocent with me. You as well as I know that excessive amounts of magic outside of classroom activities is strictly prohibited; I'm rather disappointed, too: I would have thought that you would have understood the dangers that powerful spells wreak upon growing magical centers."

It _still _didn't make any sense, however. Harry shook his head, bewildered—openly so as he stared up at the usually sweet matronly woman. "I don't understand; really, I don't. I haven't done any extensive or powerful spells, Madam Pomfrey. Mostly just what has been taught in our curriculum. Truly, I promise that I'm telling the truth, ma'am."

But the look in the Healer's eyes told Harry that the woman did _not_ believe him; he glanced down at the look of blatant suspicion, fiddling with the blankets that now covered his lap. Neither said a word for long moments, but the Infirmary's head finally sighed and brushed her hands over the teen's dark hair. "…well," the woman began, gaze contemplative and a bit sad. "I can neither confirm nor deny that you're telling the truth. But, just in case… I would like you to stay overnight so that I might monitor your condition, Mr. Potter. To ensure that nothing untoward is going on—and to fix such things if they _are _the cause of your depleted magical center."

Harry peeked up at the witch from beneath his lashes before finally venturing to ask, "Will I be released in the morning?"

"Perhaps," came Madam Pomfrey's hedged answer, the woman not willing to give a concrete yes or no—it all depending on the results of tonight's stay-in, after all. She would see then if Harry really was experimenting with strong, dangerous spells—the only thing, in her mind, that would have caused such extensive depletion—or to repair issues if something else, something sinister was going on. Sighing, the matron ruffled Harry's hair (ignoring the boy's annoyed scowl), and stepped away so that she could fetch him a pair of pajamas.

When she returned, the Potter heir silently changed into the soft, cotton clothes—all the while wondering if the reason why Madam Pomfrey didn't believe him was because he was a Slytherin. The pattern was something that was repeated with all of the other professors, as well, and it had always filled Harry with more than a bit of fury to see just how _thoroughly_ the prejudices had ingrained themselves in the Hogwarts school life. _Not everyone is how you assume they are_, the boy thought as he stepped into the cotton pants, pulling them up before shrugging on his nightshirt.

It didn't matter that he had lied to the Bloody Baron and Professor Snape earlier: _that_—that was acceptable. The Head of Slytherin House was uncanny at his sensing lies, and it had become an unspoken language between the two of them: Harry lied when he didn't want to talk about something, but was too prideful to admit it. And Professor Snape did not press, unless he discovered that the issue was something that was detrimental to Harry's health.

But here…

With Madam Pomfrey…

With the other professors:

The assumption reigned supreme that every word out of a Slytherin's mouth was a lie.

More than a bit annoyed at the Healer—and at himself, for allowing the prejudice to bother him in the first place—Harry kept his gaze averted when he stepped out from the changing station, keeping his attention firmly upon the cool stone he was standing on.

"All right there, Mr. Potter?" Madam Pomfrey asked and then continued before Harry had the chance to reply. "Excellent. Now, we'll assign this bed right here for you—in you go—and since it's nearing curfew already, I'll leave you be. I'll come back again in the morning to check on you, but if there's anything that you need in the night, summon one of the House Elves and I'll be fetched quick as can be."

"Yes, ma'am," Harry murmured in answer, knowing that no other reply would have been considered acceptable. He gave a silent sigh—who _really_ ever went to bed at curfew, anyway?—and did as he was bid, climbing up into the bed and pulling his blankets up and over his prone body.

"Good night, Mr. Potter," Madam Pomfrey said and, with a flick of her wand, dimmed the lights in the Infirmary. She gave the boy a quick, composed smile and let the boy be so that he could head off to sleep.

It wasn't much longer before Harry was alone in the hall, wide awake and staring up at the ceiling. He knew that the hours would pass by at a snail's pace—wishing now, too, that he had at least brought some of his books with him when Professor Snape had ordered him to the hospital wing. But it was too late now, and the Slytherin knew that there was no point in crying over spilt milk.

Sighing softly, Harry rolled over onto his belly and pressed his cheek to the cool material of the pillow, eyes closing briefly as he attempted to _will_ himself to sleep. He knew, already, that it wouldn't work considering how quickly he mind raced with thoughts—

_Haaarry…_

The boy froze.

It had been weeks—months before that—since he had last heard The Voice, and… this time, oh, _this time_, The Voice was so much… _more_. Never before had it sounded so solid, so present—so _real_. It was such a soothing voice, the type of voice that rumbled smoothly from a person's chest, a velvety type of voice that coaxed and seduced with nothing more than a whisper. Already, it was enough for Harry to release the tension from his muscles, eyes going heavy-lidded as he felt the bed dip next to his prone body.

_Haaarry…_

He felt fingers curl around the edge of his blanket, drawing it down slowly; it caught at a fold of his top, lingering slightly, before another gentle tug pulled the blanket down to the foot of the bed. Harry shivered at the sudden decrease of temperature, but that was soon enough rectified:

The weight upon the mattress shifted, and the boy stifled a low moan against the sheets beneath him as the silhouette moved to drape itself over his body. Hands—_solid touches_—eased up beneath his nightshirt, caressing over skin in such a way that goose pimples soon followed after, and it felt _so good_—_so right_. Idly, the raven-haired teen arched back so that the hands would press that much more firmly against the skin of his back, and the phantom touches acquiesced to his silent demand: almost playfully, fingernails scratched over golden skin, leaving behind faint red marks.

"Yes…" the boy whispered, the green of his eyes going sleepy with the onset of desire. His fingers curled tightly in the edges of his pillow, clinging tightly at the surge of _want_ that settled low in his belly: and The Voice chuckled quietly as soft lips nuzzled the nape of Harry's neck.

_We have a bond, you and I_, the shadow whispered, breathed against Harry's back as the ghostly touch began to carefully push the back of the boy's shirt up, revealing warm skin, the elegant, pretty dip at the small of Harry's spine: a slightly-parted mouth dotted kisses along Harry's vertebrae, and the Slytherin shuddered at the sensation when teeth scraped over a shoulderblade. _You can never escape this, Haaarry… I will __**never**__ allow it._

The words should have filled Harry with fear.

They did not.

_You are mine, child... Forever __**mine**__._

The lips—the teeth—they migrated higher before sinking roughly into the bend of Harry's throat, right where his pulse beat wildly: _Merlin!_ the boy could only think, the word repeated over and over again in his mind, like a litany—perhaps a _prayer_, if Harry had ever allowed himself to believe in anything—and his gasp strangled out as he bucked back against the oh-so familiar presence that pinned him to the bed.

_**Mine**_, The Voice growled out quietly against the skin of Harry's neck, and the boy could _feel_ a knee work itself between his thighs to force them to part. He did so willingly, arching his throat for more of that delicious pain—the taste of dark chocolate, his silhouette, the hellfire eyes that sometimes watched him as he slept—the presence was familiar, but the sensation of the body pinning him that much more thoroughly against the bed was _not_. It was new, strange, unfamiliar and dominating—and perhaps Harry would have considered himself drunk at some other time—

But he still reached over his shoulder to bury his fingers in midnight-dark hair, strands crisp and curly against the pads of his fingertips, and just desperately tried to bring this presence, this Dark silhouette, that much closer still.

"More. _Please_," Harry gasped out as the presence snarled quietly against the shell of his ear. The being nipped the edge of the teen's jawline, tongue laving at the small sting to soothe it—and then was soon enough sealing lips over Harry's previously unmarked skin: to claim this boy, this child of prophecy, as its own: masculine smugness radiating far at having the teen's lithe body writing against its own in a greedy _demand_ for that more that Harry had _begged_ from it—

The boy bucked backwards, with thighs parted invitingly, and there was no point in stifling the hungry moan when the curve of his arse came into contact with the very real, very solid proof that this shadow was _here_, was _male_, and very much wanted him: the silhouette pressed its erection against the body beneath its own, giving a warning growl when Harry attempted to wiggle free so that he could touch to his own heart's content. It wasn't much long after that Harry found himself thoroughly pinned to the mattress with his wrists caught in a solid, harsh grip; a hand tangled its fingers in the mess of his hair, yanking his head to the side to bare his throat in a vulnerable manner: and, contrary to his usual antics, Harry didn't fight. He lay there, pinned and dominated, and _loving_ it as hips moved against his backside, forcing his thighs to stay parted, and the silhouette that he had always thought was nothing more than a dream frotted and whispered and growled and bit hard enough to draw blood. And claimed, roughly and thoroughly, and _not enough_ because there was still that barrier of cloth that separated them both, and Harry craved the friction of skin against skin, the muted slap that would resound through the hall should he have been allowed that _more._

"_Please_," Harry begged as he trembled beneath the presence, hands tugging insistently to escape their shackles.

The shadow laughed quietly, pitch cruel and darkly amused as The Voice murmured against the shell of the teen's ear: _No, child. You will accept what I give to you, you will crave what I give to you, and this... **this** will finish at **my** leisure. You are mine, you are claimed, and **I own you**. Body and soul, **mine**, always._

The words should have terrified the independent Slytherin.

Instead, Harry moaned brokenly as he imagined the taste of this shadow's kiss, the fall from grace that would be inevitable once the boy reached out to claim this Mephostophilis' contract, the inevitable deal with the devil that he had been destined to enter into from the moment of his conception:

_"Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it._  
_Think'st thou that I saw the face of God_  
_And tasted the eternal joys of heaven,_  
_Am not tormented with ten thousand hells_  
_In being deprived of everlasting bliss?"_*

But Hell was such a beautifully sinful place to be damned for eternity to.

And wasn't it apt, wasn't it absolutely perfect that it was Hell that Harry wanted to embrace with open arms: the Light had always been too harsh, too finite, but the Dark... it was that singular choice weeks ago that had opened Harry's eyes, his mind, his _senses_, and it was here that he knew he belonged: to the Shadows. This was home, this was where his heart resided: and here, too, he knew that he was thoroughly claimed by its Lord. _This_ Lord, this dominating presence that hissed words incomprehensibly against the delicate curve of his ear.

Hell was not being denied the presence of the Lord of Light, but _this_ dangerous, Ebon-Dark presence: Harry's own Dark God.

"Fuck me," the teen snarled as his head darted to the side; he bit down at the skin that found itself beneath his lips, digging teeth harshly against flesh in the hopes that the Slytherin would anger the shadow to the point of lashing out and doing what Harry wanted. He tasted blood, warm against his tongue, and knew then that this was _real_. It was _real_, this shadow was not just a shadow, but a true, _living_ presence; a presence that put claim to him.

For the first time since this had begun, Harry felt a cold frisson of fear.

There was an answering snarl from up above, and Harry's head was tilted back to a painful degree as the shadow's own teeth bit down at the curve of Harry's shoulder in retaliation. He cried out softly and came, one of his hips clutched painfully in the domineering grip of the silhouette, and the hand dipped beneath the elastic waistband of his pajama pants to caress fingers through the mess of the boy's come.

_One day_, The Voice breathed against Harry's broken skin. _You may try to run, to escape me. To escape this. But this bond will never break; and you, child, will forever be tied to me. You are **mine**, this is **mine**: body, soul, heart, and magic, **you are mine**. **You will never escape me**, and I will come for you very soon, Harry. Haaarry... my child, my little Snake; **mine**. **You can never escape me.** This is a promise; and this, too, is a warning. I'm coming for you, Haaarry... **Soon.**_

Magic suddenly pulsed, vibrating out through the air in a ripple effect, and the very foundation of Hogwarts shuddered in reaction, trembling and buckling at the magical onslaught that rocked through its hallowed halls, the force that was centered in the Infirmary and over one green-eyed boy's bed.

And Harry slipped into unconsciousness with the lingering feeling of lips pressed against his own.

* * *

* _The Tragic History of Doctor Faustus_ by Christopher Marlowe; Act 1, Scene 3, Lines 76-80: Mephostophilis to Faustus


	13. Chapter 13

_Author's Note:_ Many thanks for the reviews last chapter! Also, I wanted to take the time in this note to offer up another rec for you all to read: _My Reflection_ by Mask with a truth. After you're done with this chapter, go and read it—and encourage the writer to update as quickly as possible. ;) *bribes you all with macadamia nut Hershey's Kisses and goes back to chugging delicious Kona coffee to be able to get through the day*

Anyway, in other news, here's another early chapter for you all; again, thanks for the unintended update can go to the little songbird who has decided that three a.m. is the _perfect time_ to begin trilling its non-lullaby, disregarding the fact that it's still dark out. *facepalms* I'll probably be spending the rest of the week working on various chapters for current stories. So you'll probably get another update for _something_ (though it'll probably be _Mephistophilis, My Mephistophilis_) by the time the weekend strolls on by.

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

The next morning, Harry rose before Madam Pomfrey could enter into the Infirmary, padding on silent feet so that he might stand still before one of the few mirrors that were scattered about the large chamber.

His breathing was faster than normal, chest rising and falling rapidly—on the verge of hyperventilation, almost to the point of having a panic attack. Because of that, it took a long, long while before the Slytherin boy could find the courage to lift his gaze to meet his reflection head-on.

His throat was a mess.

He could see, even through the bruising, the teeth marks that the phantom had left: reddened skin, crusted blood where he hadn't bothered to stop the bleeding since he had been knocked unconscious before he had the chance to truly respond. His pajama bottoms stuck to the skin over his hips and groin, and the realization that last night truly had happened—_that it had been real_—that the phantom wasn't just a silhouette conjured from his dreams—_was someone_—someone who had promised to _come_ for him—and soon, _very, very soon_—

Harry's knees gave out and the boy fell to the cold stone of the floor.

His eyes stared into his own shell-shocked gaze, and the boy shuddered at the fear that he found there, hidden within the green depths. What frightened him further, however, was not necessarily the terror, the fear: it was the anticipation and curiosity that he could _see _within the Slytherin-green of his gaze, and it was the latter two emotions that made Harry fear for his future.

And those two emotions? Oh, they made the terror _worsen_.

He had gone so long with being independent, with standing alone—but the Dark touch that had caressed over his body last night, it had been his undoing: he knew that he had become addicted, had lost himself in the sensation of another's touch, another's weight pinning him down upon the mattress. So used to being the sole figure within his life, Harry knew that there was danger that awaited him should he welcome that phantom into his life with open arms.

He couldn't risk it.

He knew that he had to resist.

But those touches had felt _so good_…

Angry at himself, Harry snarled silently and slammed his hand against the mirror that his forehead was resting against, drawing in the chill in an attempt to cool the fever in his blood, drinking it in and _forcing_ it to linger: this was his life—_his life!_—and Harry refused to relinquish control of it to _anyone_. Snarl audible now, the teen once more slammed his balled fist against the glass of the mirror, taking inordinate pleasure in making it shatter despite the fact that the mirror shards sliced the edges of his hand.

Seven years' bad luck.

_Fuck you_, Harry told the thought and pushed away from the image to head towards the potions cupboard, stealing several draughts for the wounds that he had sustained and slipping a Blood-Replenishing Potion into his pocket for good measure. It was tempting, too, to take a Pepperup Potion, but the Slytherin knew that it wouldn't have an effect unless he was coming down with a cold. More's the pity, in that: with the rough night behind him, Harry could have used the extra energy to get through today's classes.

With a quick flick of his wand and a muttered _Reparo_, the fourteen year-old repaired the mirror and headed off to retrieve the stack of clothes that had been folded at the foot of his bed; he changed quickly, looking forward to the Healer releasing him, and the mundane task of getting dressed for the day helped Harry steady his nerves—not much. But it was something.

* * *

The month of September passed by harmlessly enough:

Harry continued to do well in his classes, Hermione continued to be his best friend, most of the school continued to give him sidelong glances and suspicious looks whenever they caught sight of Zambia beneath his school robes, and Draco continued to give him the cold shoulder—for what, Harry still didn't know and had decided on giving up his pursuit of asking the blonde. Whatever problem the Malfoy heir had with Harry, Draco would have to work it out on his own. Harry was through with pursuing the other, hoping to bend whatever bridges had been broken, only to receive a lifted nose in reply. It was to the point that Harry was gritting his teeth and trying very, _very_ hard not to hex the pureblood into oblivion.

At least he could admit to himself that the thought was positively _tempting_.

When October 1st came 'round, it was almost as a surprise to Harry: the only reason why he even realized what the day was—or, more specifically, its significance—came when Hermione made her way excitedly through the Great Hall to plop down on the bench next to Harry. "Oh, Harry!" the Gryffindor chattered excitedly to her best friend, completely oblivious to the fact that she was very much sitting at the wrong table. "I just found out that the other schools have finally arrived!"

Before the green-eyed teen had the chance to reply, a seventh year prefect hissed angrily at the sight of Hermione making herself at home, talking animatedly as she reached for some toast to butter (telling Harry about how she had caught a glimpse of the Durmstrang boat coming up out of the Black Lake while she had still been up in the Gryffindor Tower).

"What do you think that you're doing here at our table, you filthy little Mud—"

Before Burthon had the chance to finish, however, Harry raised a hand and cut him off. A glance to the prefect was just enough to have the boy's teeth click shut in surprise. "I wouldn't finish that word if I were you," the Boy-Who-Lived murmured conversationally. "Otherwise, you'll be finding out—through firsthand experience, mind—just how quickly Black Mamba venom works on the human body."

The prefect paled abruptly, and Hermione clucked in admonishment at her best friend. "Harry! You know better than that; you shouldn't threaten other students!" the girl scolded, though secretly pleased that Harry was more than ready to defend her—and his friendship with her—to his House.

"It wasn't a threat," Harry corrected his best friend idly, pressing a kiss to her temple before casually scooping her a bowl of porridge. "It was a promise."

"_Harry_," Hermione said with a slight scowl. In answer, the dark-haired boy gave her an innocent, sweet smile and… she melted. Hermione knew that it was just an act and that he was doing it to ensure that she'd let the topic go—but when Harry smiled at her like that, well… She was utterly and completely lost. Sighing, the Gryffindor let the conversational thread drop—for now—and instead switched back to her original reason as to why she was paying the Slytherin Table an early morning visit.

"Oh, it was so _impressive_, watching the ship come out from the waters of the Black Lake," the girl gushed happily, gesturing with her spoon as she described the scene that she had been lucky enough to catch. "The masts had come up first and there was a moment when I thought that the water that the ship was submerged beneath would be too heavy for it to handle, but… there was a ripple that passed through the entire lake and then the ship _surged_ and it broke through the surface as if there hadn't been any original trouble at all!"

"And, let me guess…" Harry cut in, watching Hermione from the corner of his gaze and, counting down from ten, spoke along with her: "I _do_ hope that I'll be able to take a closer look at the ship. I'd _love_ to learn what enchantments and charms they have on it."

Halfway through the sentence, Hermione had trailed off and huffed in a heady mixture of amusement and annoyance: never before had she had a friend like Harry, one who knew her so incredibly well that he could anticipate what she'd say—word for word.

"Well, I _do_ hope that they'll let me take a closer look at their ship before they leave at the end of the year…" the girl muttered, partly under her breath. The Slytherin just snickered in answer to that, but offered Hermione part of his pasty in peace offering. With a prim gesture that not even Draco could find fault with, she took the proffered gift from her best friend and neatly bit into it.

It was then, of course, that the Durmstrang (and the newly arrived Beauxbatons) students arrived: with food still stuffed in Hermione's mouth, which made her choke quietly—thankfully, none of the other students aside from Harry noticed—as she stared with wide eyes at the strong, broad-shouldered form of Viktor Krum.

When she caught Harry staring at her, gaze knowing, the girl turned bright red and promptly glanced down to her bowl of porridge, hopefully nonchalantly enough that Harry wouldn't comment. Alas, though: she wasn't so lucky.

"That's Viktor Krum," Harry murmured softly, tone teasingly wicked. "He's the one that won the Quidditch World Cup for Bulgaria." A quiet hum, and Hermione knew that she wasn't about to escape so lightly. "He was also the one who does that _Wonky-Faint_ that you were lecturing me about when I was rambling your ear off about the Quidditch World Cup~"

"It's called the Wronski Feint, Harry," Hermione corrected with a little sniff, just to prove that she had been listening to Harry earlier on when he had first originally been rambling happily about the Quidditch move that had so impressed him.

To that?

Harry just snickered quietly and propped his chin in his hand, devious expression not even close to leaving his gaze in the way that she had originally hoped it would. "If you'd like, I can always introduce you to him later. He was very polite to me this past summer."

If anything, Hermione's blush just deepened and she quickly shook her head. "Oh, no! No, no, no, no, _no_! I'm sure that there will be lots of different girls vying for his attention and I… I don't want to become just like them. He's very handsome, but I don't want to bother him. He'll have plenty to be taking into consideration, what with settling into Hogwarts this year and the competition if he gets chosen. I… no. But thank you, Harry."

The boy smiled at that, leaning closer so that he could rest his head against his best friend's. "You're sweet, 'Mione," he murmured, just loud enough for only the girl to hear. "And, personally, I think that it wouldn't matter if hundreds of girls end up flocking around Krum. They wouldn't be able to hold a candle to you."

Hermione's embarrassed flush deepened at Harry's words and, move quick, she pecked Harry's cheek with a kiss before gathering up her things so that she could return to her own House Table.

It was rather entertaining watching her, however:

When Viktor Krum glanced over from his group of fellow Durmstrang students to see who it was that had been moving from the corner of his eyes—and when Hermione saw that she had his attention on her—the girl accidentally tripped over her own feet in obvious nervousness and nearly went sprawling… if Krum hadn't managed to catch her, that is.

It was as Harry continued to watch Hermione that he realized that… well. Hermione was a _girl_. She was an intelligent, driven, pretty girl who had more motivation than nearly the entire school body put together—and though Harry considered her his best friend, it wasn't until he saw how she blushed faintly and glanced down after thanking the Bulgarian Seeker for catching her that Harry realized that she really and truly was a _girl_. A girl who was brilliant, a girl who also happened to be his best mate: and yet it had taken Harry until _now_ to finally consider her gender.

He was almost surprised at himself for not being jealous of the attention that his best friend was currently giving Viktor Krum, but… several thoughts occurred to him, all at once: the first being that it was actually rather touching and sweet watching Hermione interact with her first crush (or the first crush that Harry had finally noticed) and the second being that… he didn't see Hermione in that way.

A glance towards the group of assembled Beauxbatons girls confirmed the fact that he thought them pretty, but nothing overly spectacular. Even the girls that he could tell had Veela heritage within them (and which then again opened up a whole 'nother can of worms as Harry recalled the full-fledged Veela at the Quidditch World Cup—and his lack of immediately trying various stunts to catch their attention).

Add in the fact that Harry hadn't bothered trying to heal the marks that his Dark phantom had left several weeks before (though he _was_ using a glamour to hide the damage done), the Slytherin Potter belatedly realized that perhaps now was a good time to start considering his sexuality.

Though if he wanted to be honest with himself, there really wasn't much to consider.

Not when he had reacted so… strongly… to the presence that had come to him in the Infirmary, to the point of begging the male phantom to… well. Yes, there really wasn't much to consider because the answer should have been obvious enough to him from the very start.

Harry dropped his head and allowed his forehead to smack soundly against the table.

* * *

Harry never realized just how pretty Hermione looked when she was in love.

Despite the fact that her first meeting with Viktor Krum hadn't gone all that well—what with the stumbling over her own feet and nearly plummeting to the ground in front of the entire Great Hall at just a _look_ from him—they were surprisingly… _sweet_… together. Krum was always unfailingly polite around Hermione: his accent was thick and his English was still stumbling, but the only time that the older boy ever looked lively during a conversation was when he was talking with Hermione.

And though Harry knew he was feeling rather territorial about his best friend, even a blind man could see how Hermione lit up beneath the attention. She _glowed_. The girl took a little bit more time in the morning on her appearance: nothing much, nothing drastic, nothing that would make her completely different from the Hermione that he had come to care for, but the girl _had_ stolen some of Harry's Muggle gel and used it to keep her hair under control, though it was almost always pulled neatly back into a professional-looking ponytail nowadays.

But the changed hairstyle normally wouldn't be enough to really comment upon.

However, Hermione was always _smiling_. She smiled up at Viktor Krum when he spoke to her, smiled as she went to see him (usually in the library because no matter how strong a crush she had, it would be a cold day in Hell before _anyone_ would be able to pry her away from the library), smiled when she met up with Harry later on: smiling, smiling, _always smiling_. It was obvious that Hermione was on Cloud 9, and yet…

Harry viewed her like a sister and thought it only fair that he took up his brotherly duty.

"Hello, Krum," Harry began easily as he eased into a chair next to the Durmstrang student; making himself comfortable, both boys waited for Hermione's usual appearance—though Harry took advantage of her absence to smile sweetly at the older teen. "While I know that I'm probably going out of bounds with this, but I just wanted to let you know that Hermione is my best mate—she's like a sister to me. So if you hurt her _in any way_, I'll not only hex your balls off, but I'll also make the rest of your life a living hell. Just so you know—for future reference."

Krum blinked at that, having to take a moment to reconcile the threat with the impossibly sweet smile that the younger boy was giving to him. He was spared from replying, however, by Hermione's appearance: "Hello, Viktor. Hello, Harry," the girl murmured in greeting, giving both boys a peck on the cheek. She was neither blind nor immune to atmosphere, though, and was soon enough directing her attention to her best friend. Besides, the Gryffindor recognized _that smile_ that Harry was currently giving to the Durmstrang. "Just what did you do?"

"Nothing," Harry said in answer with a playful smile. "I was just warning Viktor here that he better treat you like the goddess you are." Hermione blushed at that, though she still tried to do her best to scowl at Harry. "Anyway, I need to head off for a Potions session. Zambia says hi."

Krum blinked at that, more than obviously lost in the conversation. "Zambia…? Who is…?"

Harry laughed and gave Krum another innocent smile, and the Durmstrang student came to the realization that Harry only smiled the way that he was doing so when he fully intended on annihilating an opponent. It was enough to make the normally stoic boy shiver in trepidation. "Zambia? She's my highly venomous Black Mamba familiar. One of the most poisonous snakes in the world, mind."

With that, the Slytherin left Hermione and Krum to themselves so that he could head back down to the dungeons and the waiting Potions Master. It wasn't until they were completely alone that Krum turned to Hermione, dark eyes worried as he looked into the sweet gaze of the Gryffindor girl. "Potter was joking, wasn't he…?"

Hermione flushed in embarrassment at that, glancing down and fiddling with her folded hands. Silently, she shook her head—hoping, desperately so, that Harry's attempt at playing the big brother didn't ruin her chances with this sweet, gentlemanly—though adorably gruff in an oversized bear sort of way—boy.

"…ah."

* * *

After his talk with Harry, Krum had gone out of his way to treat Hermione even more like a lady—nevermind the fact that he had always been gentlemanly and didn't press his suit (though it was obvious that he was romantically interested in the talented girl), but Krum decided to err on the side of caution to ensure that he wouldn't encourage Zambia—or Harry Potter's—wrath.

Besides, there was an entire year to develop a relationship with Hermione, and the Durmstrang boy was surprisingly looking forward to it. There was no need to rush, and it would be nice to court a girl in the old fashioned way—how his Papa spoke of how he had wooed his mother's hand.

But it was small, considerate indulgences that endeared Krum to Hermione: the older boy would oftentimes repeat himself in explanations over certain Quidditch moves—no matter how he had explained the same move to the girl several times before; he walked with her to her classes and down to the Great Hall during mealtimes; he was unfailingly polite to Harry Potter (though perhaps that last bit was due to his own sense of self-preservation); and the Durmstrang student oftentimes opted to sit with the bookish girl instead of his own schoolmates.

It was the last indulgence that explained why Krum found himself sitting at the Slytherin Table on Halloween Night: Harry had been coaxed by his Housemates into attending the Feast and watching the Champions selection despite the fact that he wanted to be alone to pay a vigil over the night of his parents' deaths. And Hermione wanted to spend the night with Harry so that he knew that he wasn't alone, and the girl kept her fingers wrapped snugly around her best friend's beneath the edge of the table. And Krum…? Krum found himself falling hard for the girl who cared so much for her best friend that he put his own misgivings aside and went to join her at Harry's House Table, hoping that the green-eyed teen had finally warmed up to him. (At least a little.)

As the Feast neared its conclusion, Dumbledore stood and tapped his wand lightly against a glass goblet to gain the student body's attention. "Quiet!" he called out, waiting until the children began to fall silent—all turning in their chairs to give the Hogwarts Headmaster their gazes. "Now, as you all know tonight is the selection for the three schools' Champions. Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang's qualifying students have all had the past month in which to place their names in the Goblet of Fire. Now, however—now, dear children, comes the _selection_!"

He gestured towards a pedestal that slowly rose above the heads of all those who gathered in the Great Hall. From the corner of his eyes, Harry could see Hermione scoot forward in anticipation, reaching out and resting one hand on both his and Krum's forearms. Her lips were parted with a soundless "_Ooooh…_" and the enchantment of the moment didn't wear off as Dumbledore gestured once more and the casing that had surrounded the Goblet of Fire slowly melted away, trickling down the pedestal to gather in a puddle on the ground fall below.

With a muted sound, the Goblet lit itself, and the flame went from the usual golden-red tint to a shade that was ghostly blue, the fire flickering eerily as it hovered just over the lip of the wide-mouthed cup.

Suddenly, however, the Goblet of Fire sparked, the sound crackling throughout the Great Hall, and a slightly charred piece of paper floated through the air to land in the Headmaster's expectant grip. The old man glanced at the name before a pleased smile made its way across his face: the first Champion had been selection. "The Champion for Hogwarts will be none other than Mr. Cedric Diggory!"

The Hufflepuff Table erupted in insane cheers and cries, everyone immediately ecstatic over the fact that the Hogwarts Champion hadn't been picked from one of the other three Houses—but from the House that had always been underrated, swept beneath the carpets, disregarded as useless.

Their reaction was warranted, however, when Harry turned to Hermione and gave her his most incredulous stare. "Our Champion is a _Hufflepuff_?"

"_Harry_," Hermione snapped, scolding her best friend for his rudeness; to ensure that he learned his lesson, she also lightly slapped his arm. At the very least, it was only _polite_ to cheer for their _school's Champion_.

Thankfully, Harry didn't have to respond to her chiding because the Goblet of Fire sparked once more and another piece of paper, also slightly charred, came out from the flames that hovered _just so_. The paper had been delicately folded into an origami bird, the color a pale blue that matched the Beauxbatons school uniforms perfectly. Dumbledore read the second piece of paper with another smile, finally clearing his throat and announcing, "The Champion from Beauxbatons is… Miss Fleur Delacour!"

There was a rush of subdued, pleased giggles from the Beauxbatons' Table, and girls circled one of their own en masse, offering up congratulatory kisses on cheeks while most of the male population of Hogwarts watched on with slightly glazed expressions. Harry didn't bother hiding his amused snort as Ronald Weasley neatly tripped over the bench at the Gryffindor Table, expression vacant and making as if he intended to wander over to the section that was set aside for the French academy.

"All that's left is Durmstrang Institute," Harry commented idly as Fleur eventually managed to untangle herself from her ecstatic schoolmates to make her way to the Champions' Room.

"Well, we already know who will be picked," Hermione murmured as she reached out and lightly threaded her fingers with Krum's, giving them an affectionate squeeze.

"Ah, but there can be no certainty in that…" Krum felt the need to point out, not wanting Hermione to get her expectations up—not wanting to disappoint her if he didn't get picked.

"_I_ know," the girl said in reply, smiling happily up at Krum. And as the Bulgarian Seeker looked down at her, Krum still couldn't believe just how lucky he had been to find this amazing, sweet, intelligent girl: how it had all come down to coincidence and that there had been a chance that he might never had met Hermione. He was _lucky_; he _knew_ this full well, even as thoroughly as he knew that her best friend was an overprotective Spawn of Satan.

So caught up in one another, neither heard the announcement for Durmstrang Institute. Rolling his eyes and _hoping_ that he didn't look as cow-eyed as these two did when he had his first crush, Harry reached around Hermione and lightly clapped Krum on the shoulder. "Congratulations! You're the Champion for Durmstrang!"

Krum blinked and shook his head. While it was an _honor_ to be picked, he knew that it didn't really come as a _surprise_ to him, no. Lightly, he brought up his and Hermione's entangled hands and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, which of course made the girl turn beet red in reaction. "I shall see you later, then, Hermione."

When Krum was gone, however, Harry shifted closer to his best friend and wrapped an affectionate arm around Hermione's waist. "…I don't want to burst your bubble, 'Mione, but… please be careful? I don't want to see you hurt."

Smiling at that, Hermione shifted closer and rested her head upon Harry's shoulder, her own arms wrapping around the teen's waist to squeeze back. "I know, Harry. And I'm trying to make sure to be careful, to make sure that I don't get in over my head. But… it's a nice feeling. Having someone like you—in the way that Viktor seems to like me. Silly, I know. But… it's a nice feeling. I feel _special_ with the way that he looks at me, Harry." The last was repeated and said in a quiet whisper as the girl looked down at the golden plate set before her.

Not wanting to spoil her happy mood, Harry remained silent and just hugged her tighter.

Their quiet, comfortable mood was spoiled, however, when the Goblet of Fire shifted from flames of blue to red to purple to _black_. Professor McGonagall reached out to gain the Headmaster's attention, eyes wide and rapt upon the Goblet. "Albus…" the Deputy Headmistress whispered, squeezing the old man's forearm to gain his attention.

Frowning, Dumbledore turned about and _froze_ when he caught sight of the obviously enchanted Goblet attempting to fight off its enchantment. As the two magics fought against one another, a low feeling of dread settled in the bottom of Harry's stomach. "Let's go," he whispered urgently to Hermione, tugging on her arm. "I don't want to see this."

Dark, Light, and Gray magic fought for precedence within the Goblet, and Harry could _feel_ how each battled for supremacy. And it was this sensitivity to magic, to auras, to the very throb and push and pull that made up his and all other wizards' world, Harry was fully aware of which magic would eventually dominate and reign strong amongst the three.

He could see, too, the resigned look that settled upon Dumbledore's face and the glittering smugness that lingered in Lucius Malfoy's gaze as the aristocrat tracked Harry's desperate flight from the Great Hall.

He wasn't fast enough, however.

"Harry Potter. … Harry Potter. _HARRY POTTER!_" The Headmaster's voice roared through the Great Hall and, knowing that he was cornered before he had the chance to escape, Harry slowly turned to make the accusing, flinty gaze of the Hogwarts Headmaster. In one hand, just as he had three previous times, Dumbledore held a slightly charred piece of paper.

Stunned silence rippled throughout the Great Hall, only breaking when the Headmaster's low, angry voice shattered the pull and surge. "Harry Potter is the fourth Triwizard Champion."

Silence.

Silence.

_Silence._

And then all hell broke loose:

"He's a dirty cheat!" came a voice from the Gryffindor Table. Soon enough, other voices were joining the first: "I don't want a Slytherin defending us!" "How in the bloody hell did he manage it?" "Expel him for cheating!" "It's not fair!" Soon enough, however, the individual words were drowned out by schoolwide boos and catcalls, snake hisses that echoed through the large hall in a mocking sort of way.

"Go, Harry," Hermione whispered, face bone-white as she gently pushed him towards the doorway that the previous three Champions had disappeared into. "_Go_. You'll have to get this sorted out."

One of the most humiliating moments in Harry's life was the walk across the Great Hall.

Students tried to trip him and hex him, subtly curse him with embarrassing things: boils and jelly legs, overly large front teeth, acne that would have covered his entire face with blemishes that would take weeks to clear away. Despite being shell-shocked and running on auto-pilot, Harry still managed to defend himself and walk with as much dignity as possible as he approached the doorway, head held high and gaze focused upon the Head Table.

Perhaps the Headmaster thought that Harry was challenging him with that look.

He was not: Harry's attention remained completely upon Lucius Malfoy and, once the fourth year managed to get across the Great Hall without any mishaps, the pureblood patriarch gave a small, pleased smile and slightly inclined his cup towards the boy in a subtle toast. His eyes, though—those glittering, silver, ice-cold eyes were _warm_ with pride.

* * *

Harry slowly made his way down the steps that led to the room at the bottom of the stairwell, expression tightly closed as he continued to keep his chin uplifted. The Dark magic swirled behind him, trailing after the boy as a puppy would, and he could feel-taste-_see_ the negativity that drove it closer still, the whispers from the Great Hall just adding to its power, its strength.

"Are we needed upstairs?" Krum asked curiously when he spotted Harry's presence.

The raven-haired boy shook his head silently, and it was then that the three Headmasters and several professors—followed _much_ more sedately by the Ministry's representative, Lucius Malfoy, of course—came tumbling down the stairs.

"Harry!" Dumbledore roared as he darted forward. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders and gently shook him, eyes wild and the usual twinkle nowhere near being present. "Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?" Silently, still shell-shocked, Harry shook his head no. "Did you ask one of the older students to do it for you?" Again, a shake of his head. Question after question, Dumbledore continued to pound his student with, making the questioning into an impromptu interrogation where Harry was already considered guilty. They just needed to prove it.

It was towards the end of Dumbledore's session that Madame Maxime drawled sarcastically, accent thick enough to cut, as her hands waved about in a dismissive manner, "_Of course_ he is _lying_! Dumbley-door, who wouldn't want to become a Champion, to earn eternal glory and fame?"

The words, however, were the wrong thing to say to Harry: the boy finally left his stunned stupor and, instead, _lost his temper_.

"Oh, _of course_ I want eternal glory and fame," the Slytherin drawled right back in his best imitation of "Uncle Lucius." He sneered at the half-giantess, lip curling disdainfully as he reached up to push aside thick bangs to show the woman his lightning bolt scar. "Of _course _I want eternal glory and fame because it's something that I'll never have! _Of course_ I entered into the Tournament to get the prize money because being the sole heir to a pureblood line—and thus, access to the pureblood family's vaults as well as my godfather's vaults, too!—all of that means jack squat. _Of course_ it doesn't matter that my name is already down in countless number of books, that I get _stared at_ every time I go out in public. _Of course_ I totally want more fame despite the fact that reporters immediately write articles about me every time I _sneeze._ 'Harry Potter: The Boy-Who-Caught-A-Cold'!"

The woman looked taken aback for a moment before fury settled upon her face and the Headmistress stepped forward, mouth parted to retort. However, the angry boy was faster still: "Shut up," he snapped at her, ignoring Professor McGonagall's shocked, "_Mr. Potter!_" Continuing on, Harry's eyes narrowed dangerously as he returned his attention to Dumbledore. A tick was beginning to form in the corner of his jaw, and Harry wrapped his arms around his middle; most others saw it as a gesture of defiance. Professor Snape, however, saw how it allowed Harry to huddle in on himself. "Sir, I refuse to participate."

_That_ declaration left most everyone gobsmacked, though Lucius Malfoy had to do his best to hide an entertained smirk. Unsurprisingly, however, it was Headmaster Dumbledore that first managed to recuperate. "…_pardon_? My boy, that's impossible. There's a magical binding contract that—"

Again, Harry interrupted, uncaring if he was being incredibly rude. "Contracts usually have to be entered into willingly and with full knowledge of the participants. I _didn't know_ that my name was being entered and you can be most definitely assured that I am _not_ willing to participate. Therefore, the contract should be null and void. I'm not participating. I don't _want_ to."

Embarrassed now, Dumbledore slightly shifted from foot to foot, knowing that Harry wouldn't be at all pleased at what the old man was about to say—not if he was truly this dead-set against participating in the Triwizard Tournament. "Unfortunately, my dear boy, this type of contract isn't like that. You're bound to participate if you're picked the moment that your name is entered into the Goblet of Fire. If you do not participate, Harry, my boy, there will be dire consequences for not only yourself but for your fellow Champions, as well."

Harry saw red. "Whoever came up with this contract is a _fucking moron_," the boy hissed, control absolutely gone now, which then allowed the rage to step forward and take precedence over every other emotion. The air vibrated with Harry's fury and the purity of his magic, and finally realizing why many of the Hogwarts wards had been shifting in response to _something_ within the castle for the past several months, Dumbledore's eyes went wide.

However, it wasn't admonishments or scolding or reassurances that managed to calm Harry down in the end. Professor Snape stepped forward, taking Harry by the ear and shaking him firmly, much as a mother cat would do with her wayward kitten (particularly if she was more than typically annoyed with said kitten). "Five points from Slytherin for your language, Mr. Potter," the Potions Master stated, refusing to relinquish his hold on Harry's ear until the boy's temper had calmed.

_Now, now, Severus_, a thin, tinny voice chided softly from within the room. The Bloody Baron made himself visible, moving through several of the living bodies so that he might come around behind Harry's still caught figure, resting his hands upon the boy's shoulders. _Should he be believed—and I do, in fact, believe him—he has a right to be… upset. The Tasks are dangerous, after all, and are designed to test the mettle of students several years his senior. You have to admit, as well, that young Harry is at a disadvantage. For this Tournament, the Goblet of Fire decided to pick Champions that have already reached adulthood. There is an **injustice** being done here, and it is at this child's **detriment**.  
_

It was finally the combined threat of punishment from his guardian and the unexpected defense from his House ghost that eventually managed to get Harry to settle down—to a certain degree, anyway, since the hold on his temper was still very much frayed and abused. Taking a deep breath, Harry used a quick exercise from the Malfoy's grimoire to calm himself—forcing, intentionally so, his magical center to settle and quiet. There was a subtle pulse that, at some level, every witch and wizard within the room felt, and when Harry opened his eyes once more, they were carefully blank, the color muted as he kept his emotions in check.

Dumbledore cleared his throat then and glanced away from the accusation within Harry's gaze—missing, then, the way that Harry reached up to settle his hand upon the Bloody Baron's. Everyone else missed it, except for Professor Snape and Lucius Malfoy, both of whom immediately turned white as a sheet at the sight of the child _touching the ghost_, acting as if the Bloody Baron was _solid. _It should have been impossible to do so: but, then again… it should have also been impossible to find, let alone open and read, the Malfoy family grimoire.

_Just what __**are**__ you?_ Lucius thought to himself as his attention continued to linger on the boy, silver-tinted eyes thoughtful and contemplative as he assessed the Potter heir.

"Now," Headmaster Dumbledore began with a light clap of his hands. "The First Task of the Tournament is usually a surprise—meant to test each contestant's bravery. There had been some talk of bringing in dragons for you to face…" at the ashen looks that he was given, the twinkling old man only chuckled and continued "…but it was decided against it. Instead, the judges have all decided that the First Task will instead be set to gauge your stamina, your resourcefulness and creativity, and your cunning, as well."

"What is this First Task that we must face?" Fleur asked worriedly as Madame Maxime reached out and gently patted her star student's arm. The girl nearly buckled beneath the strength of the concern, but Fleur locked her legs and managed to remain steady (and upright).

"The First Task," the Headmaster continued, "involves a 'Wild Hunt.' There has been a Golden Hind released into the Forbidden Forest, and it is your job to capture it—alive, mind you—and bring it back to the castle within a month."

* * *

An hour later found Harry pacing angrily back and forth in his guardian's personal potions lab. Professor Snape leaned against one of the tables, watching Harry with hooded eyes: hiding his concern and the fear that had emerged at the fact that Harry, usually so composed and ready to respond verbally, had thoroughly lost his temper in front of the judges, Headmasters (and Headmisstress), and other three Champions. It… _concerned_… the Potions Master, making him wonder just how thoroughly unprepared his young ward was for this competition—and Harry knew it, as well, which was why he was so afraid.

Abruptly, however, the boy paused and reached up to rub tiredly at his famous scar. "A golden hind," he mused aloud, allowing Professor Snape to follow the trend of his thoughts. "We have to go and capture a golden hind. What's next for the Second Task? Cleaning out the Augean stables in a single day? The third to steal the girdle of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons?"

They had been called Herculean tasks for a reason, and what made most afraid wasn't necessarily the Task itself: it was the fear that he wouldn't be able to bring the golden hind back to the castle alive, not with the amount of Dark Arts spells he now knew. He was afraid that instincts would kick in, he would use one of the spells that he shouldn't—not if he wanted to pass under the radar for as long as possible—and then, finally, the Veil would be pulled aside and they would all see him for what he knew he was already becoming: a future Dark Lord.

"I don't want to do this," Harry murmured, scrubbing at his face.

The look that Professor Snape gave the boy in answer was, essentially, purely acerbic. "You have already been told that you don't have a choice in the matter, Mr. Potter."

Harry glared at his guardian at that, green eyes snapping with a resurgence of vitality and resentment. "I know that," he retorted, tone of voice just barely on the acceptable side of what Professor Snape considered polite. "But that doesn't mean that I have to accept it with a smile and a skip to my step."

Professor Snape was saved from retorting by the appearance of Lucius after the Malfoy patriarch had given a quick knock on his private quarters' door—entering it gracefully with the assumption (as he always did) that he was welcome immediately. "Ah, Severus. I'm glad that you're still up. And Harry! Congratulations on your new status."

The boy stared at his "uncle" for several long moments, gaze flat and unreadable—eventually reaching the point where even Professor Snape was uneasy at the lack of response. Finally, though, the boy sharply nodded and stepped forward. "Hello, Uncle Lucius," he murmured in greeting, offering up a sweet smile that had the other man stiffening. "I just wanted to say thank you for entering my name in the Goblet of Fire. While I can't prove anything, I _do_ know that it was you who did so—and who had cast the enchantment to force it to pick me, as well. I _tasted_ your magic in the spell."

If at all possible, Harry's smile turned that much more congenial. "So, _thank you_, Uncle Lucius. And, in thanks: _Punire Malum!_"

'To Punish the Evil.'

The pureblooded aristocrat's voice cut off before he had the chance to cry out, and the man fell to his knees from the force of the anger that had driven Harry's spell. He writhed on the floor, arms crossed over his chest in an effort to keep his organs within his torso as they wiggled and shifted and rearranged themselves—whilst, during it all, his heart felt like it would burst.

Through the session, Professor Snape remained deathly still: mind reeling at the fact that not only did his charge know one of the Dark Lord's invented spells, but he also had the power—and the will, the desire—to perform it. How…? _How_ had this boy already slipped through the cracks? _How did he know that spell?_

Harry kept his "uncle" under the spell for less than a minute, but it was enough to teach Lucius to tread softly with the Potter heir, the treasure that his Master had commanded him to fetch. The lesson was doubly learned, as well, when Harry very calmly, very emotionlessly stated, "I am not your pawn. _Do not_ think to treat me like one."

The boy made his way out of the warded labs then, expression as flat as it had been as he had held Lucius beneath the punishment spell. Before he was out of the door, however, Harry turned on his heel, robes snapping around him in a very fair imitation of Snape. "And next time? Just _ask_. Be sure to include me in your machinations, you great bloody bastard."

When Harry was finally gone, Professor Snape cleared his throat—the sound too hoarse, too rough, in the silence that had fallen between the two men. He stooped, however, and carefully helped his old friend to stand. He had many things to consider, and all of them focused upon his young charge. There would come a time, very near to now, he believed, when irreversible choices must be made. And it appeared as if Harry had been the one to toss down the first gauntlet. He wondered, though, whether it would be the Dark Lord or Dumbledore to pick up the challenge that the boy presented in his very _being_.

"When you journey to see the Dark Lord... It seems as if you have a great many things to report on for tonight," the Potions Master said, voice subdued as he went to fetch Lucius a draught that would help with the pain. Lucius grimaced and leaned forward so that he might rest his feverish cheek against the cool marble of the table.

"Severus, your talent at understatements is a wonder to all."


	14. Chapter 14

_Author's Note:_ Surprise! :D So I've gotten a fair amount of reviews, PMs, and emails over the course of the past several chapters, all asking me, "Wtf is up with (big baby, childish, jerk) Draco (Malfoy)*?" I intended on covering the reasoning behind his being a great, big butthead this chapter, anyway, so I decided to put the second chapter of _Mephistophilis, My Mephistophilis_ on hold for just a bit longer so that you all could get your answer for your ponderings _now_ instead of waiting for the usual Saturday update (which, if I wanted to be evil, would be _next _week)~ *laughs* Enjoy! Finally, before you guys get started, I just wanted to give a gold star to Ralia for catching the theme that I wanted to make an important part in this section. Awesome attention to detail you have there! :)

* * *

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

An irate Harry Potter wanted nothing more than to go through the dungeons to his Common Room, down the hall to his dormitory, get changed into his pajamas, and then fall asleep. He did not want to deal with questioning looks, suspicious glances, whispered theories on how he had done it: he was the entire student body's number one suspect, and it was a position that Harry had discovered way-back-when that he did _not_ enjoy.

Furthermore, an irate Harry Potter did not want to deal with a sneering Draco Malfoy.

"I'm not in the mood right now," Harry thought that it would be warning enough to mention as he attempted to stride past the blonde Malfoy heir. Draco's eyes went arctic at the attempt to dismiss him, however, and the taller boy reached out to wrap surprisingly strong fingers around Harry's bicep—effectively forcing the dark-haired Slytherin to stay put. Harry snarled in reply to the cornering, and—perhaps the first wise move Draco had done in weeks—the blonde's eyes widened and he abruptly let go, taking a step back.

Still, though, that did not mean that Draco was completely backing down: "How did you do it? How did you convince my father to put your name in the Goblet of Fire? It can't have been money or political power—he has more than you ever will. It couldn't have been strength, not when he's the Dark Lord's right hand. So what did you offer him? Because _it's not fair_ that he chose you over me!"

The words: oh, _those_ words.

For the second time that night, Harry found himself seeing _red_.

"_That's_ what's made you ignore me for the past two months? _That's_ what made you give me the cold shoulder, made you pretend that I don't exist—that I'm less than the dirt beneath your shoes? _That's it?_" Towards the end of his speech, Harry's words had developed a sibilant hiss, _sss_'s drawing out certain letters while vowels were rounded about.

When Draco took the time to glance up and meet Harry's gaze, the boy was shocked to see that red-tinted mahogany had bled into Harry's irises, circling the pupils—pupils that were still _human_, yes, but the sight of that _other_ color in Harry's vibrant eyes was enough to make Draco's breath catch and for the boy to take another step backwards. Despite the distance that he, himself, had put between the two of them, Draco had thought that things would still remain all right. Now…? Now, for the very first time, Draco found himself afraid of the boy that he had once considered his best friend.

"You've treated me like shit for the past two months because of some stupid petty _jealousy_? Because you thought that your father preferred me for some reason—and that entering me into the thing was the best way to show it? That I _wanted_ to play in this stupid Tournament?" Harry's fingers curled tight into a fist, though he managed to control himself enough to not pull his wand on the blonde. "Well, _fuck you_."

Shaking in anger at the reason for Draco's sudden childishness coming to light, Harry closed his eyes and held his breath for just a moment to get his emotions under control. The coil of Dark magic that had followed him about ever since suppertime had only grown larger the longer he retained his fury, and Harry knew better—had read about it in the Malfoy's grimoire—than to allow it to take over his more negative emotions.

When he breathed out, his very breath was tainted with magic: shimmering with dark and light glimmerings, sparkling like pixie dust, circling 'round his head for a second or two before finally allowing itself to fade from sight. Magic, _pure magic_, and it had come from the air that Harry Potter had released.

The image, however, was one that Draco would forever retain in his mind, and it was the shock and awe—disregarding the danger of Harry's foul mood—that had him whispering out the thought that had oftentimes come to both him and his father since the green-eyed Slytherin's last visit, "What _are_ you?"

It was the wrong thing to say.

_Most assuredly_, it was the wrong thing to say.

"What," Harry snarled as his eyes snapped open. "_What_. It was always 'what' with you and your father whilst I visited—I could hear the echoes of those particular thoughts resounding about in your heads, in your eyes when you'd look at me as I read. What. _What_. As if I was some sort of thing, some sort of creature—not even human enough in your appraisal and instead to be looked at with thoughts of _what_. _Stop it_. Right this minute. C_ousin dearest_, here's another question for you to start contemplating as you think about me: _Who_ am I? I would advise you to consider the difference—and consider it very, _very_ carefully."

Finally realizing just how thin the ice he was treading on actually was, Draco swallowed and glanced away from those green-green eyes, and cautiously began, "I apolo—"

Harry, however, cut him off, his hand slicing the air between their two bodies. "No," the other teen said, voice frank and gaze hard. "An apology won't cut it this time, not after you've treated me worse than trash because of your own insecurities and thought of me as subhuman in your mind for _weeks_, even before your jealousy reared its ugly green head. If you ever want my forgiveness, you and your father better expect to _grovel_. Until that point comes: you're on my shit list, Draco. You and _Uncle Lucius_ both."

Leaving Draco gaping at the fact that his attempt at an olive branch had been rejected—never mind the fact that his apology had been weak enough as-is—Harry turned with a sharp jerk and headed towards his original destination. The expression on his face warned away the students who would have commented on the teen's new status as the fourth Triwizard Champion: the atmosphere around Harry was tense, dangerously so, and even those who did atrociously in their magic-focused classes could tell that a storm was brewing about the boy. No one was willing to risk being the lucky one when lightning finally struck.

It was with Draco still standing, slack-jawed in the side room just off of Professor Snape's quarters that the Potions Master and the Malfoy patriarch stumbled upon the young blonde. Seeing his father unsteady on his feet—and remembering just where Harry had originally been coming from—the boy swallowed and diplomatically asked, "Father? What etiquette do the family books suggest when groveling?"

Lucius Malfoy's answer was filled with the dignity allotted to those few who held to the traditions of the pureblooded society, the scions of the wizarding world—the families who remembered from whence their people came. "Malfoys send gifts. _Many_ expensive gifts."

Professor Snape snorted, cherishing for all eternity the irony.

* * *

The next morning, Harry found himself… bemused.

"I heard that they're reinstating the Yule Ball with this Tournament," Hermione said with a smile as she settled down next to Harry in Transfigurations. "Professor McGonagall made an announcement last night—saying that she expects everyone to attend dancing lessons so that we don't make a mockery of Gryffindor House."

Harry quirked an eyebrow at the girl before inquiring, "And you're telling me this because…?"

Surprisingly, the girl blushed and glanced down, fiddling with the edge of her robes. "Well, I was just curious to see who you might consider asking. I know that I've been rather… caught up… with Viktor lately, and I feel horrible about it. So, I figured that if I asked…"

Realizing where this was going, Harry laughed quietly and tucked a strand of hair over the shell of Hermione's ear. "You thought that you might be able to help me win over the lucky girl for my date?" he asked, teasing. Hermione scowled at that, knowing that Harry was now just humoring her. "Well, out of all of the girls in the school that I might pick to go to the Yule Ball with, it might be Fleur... After all, on a scale of one to ten—one being the ugliest and ten being the hottest—I'd say she rates an eight-point-five. Or a nine. Definitely, however, no higher than a nine-point-eight. I'm holding out for a ten, though, because I'm worth it.* Unfortunately for me, the only ten that I know of is currently being wooed away from us British blokes by a foreigner."

"_Harry_," Hermione scolded despite the pleased blush that lit up her cheeks. The boy was always flattering her, giving her compliments and unwavering attention—and it was nice, to know that despite the fact that Harry was teasing her he really _did_ mean the things that he said… and yet: it made her sad that he never really looked at any of the other girls, seeing them the same way that he saw her (sans the whole "best friends, pseudo siblings" aspect). He was missing out on so many wonderful opportunities, and Hermione was determined to help change that—and she was on a mission to ensure that Harry's date for the Yule Ball was truly worthy of him, and would do him good.

…especially considering just how _many_ of the students had turned against him.

There were people all around them in the classroom, Slytherins and Gryffindors both. Both Houses—for once—were in agreement, every student making a point to glance away from Harry in an attempt to pretend that he didn't exist. Even Draco Malfoy wasn't looking at Harry, though Hermione wondered if there was anything more to that: mainly due to the fact that he turned bright red when she gave him her best stink eye. Evil Slytherin; and he was the one that always muttered about blood-traitors? Yet here he was, showing what it truly meant to be a blood-_traitor_.

Before she could say anything further, however, Professor McGonagall entered into the classroom and the Transfiguration period official began. The spent the hour turning kettles into ravens, and it was about halfway through her second try at the spell that Hermione finally noticed that Harry was looking at her rather oddly.

"…what? Is something wrong?" the girl asked, nervously smoothing down her hair as she returned her best friend's look with her own confused one.

The boy blinked for a moment before giving her a reassuring smile, once more reaching up to playfully tweak a strand of her hair. "No, nothing really wrong. I'm just—well, a bit surprised. I can actually _see_ where it is that you're having trouble in your wand movements."

"Really? Where?" Hermione asked, immediately perking up at the thought that she'd be able to correct her mistake—learn where she had been going wrong—and do the exercise _correctly_. What she didn't realize, however, and what Harry refrained from mentioning was the fact that he hadn't noticed the actual wand movements: it was, quite literally, him _seeing_ the part where her magic sputtered quietly before dying, not able to fully form itself to fit into the girl's intentions.

As Hermione went through the spell once more, Harry reached out and stopped her hand when the magic began to gasp, dying within the spell before having the chance to fully form itself. "There. That's it."

"Oh!" Hermione said, giving a quiet cry when she realized her mistake. It had been such a simple one, and she scowled darkly at herself for it: what was the point of correcting Ronald Weasley back in first year for his wand movements and inflection when she had just made the same mistake? Determined, even more so now, the Gryffindor went through the steps and was finally pleased with the result: a beautiful black raven with glittering onyx eyes. Reaching out with a careful hand, the girl ran her fingers over the sleek midnight-dark feathers. "I wish that the enchantment lasted longer than just several minutes," she whispered, admiring the dark beauty.

"Mmm," Harry hummed in answer, watching the way that Hermione yearningly caressed her fingers over the bird's delicate feathers. The boy hadn't yet decided on what he wanted to get Hermione as a belated birthday present and—if what he had heard before was true—the girl was no longer allowed to bring Crookshanks to Hogwarts since the Weasley claimed that he had eaten the ginger's pet rat. _That_ was obviously a big fat lie, but perhaps Harry could get her a pet owl. Or maybe a raven, considering how enamoured she was with this one.

Seeing that she had her best friend's undivided attention, however, Hermione quirked an eyebrow at Harry and quipped, "Professor McGonagall is coming up behind you. I'd work on your own assignment now, if I were you."

Watching as Harry scrabbled to place his kettle in front of him, the girl chuckled softly and smiled up at the stern woman when Professor McGonagall took the time to praise her for her Transfiguration. "I had an excellent tutor," Hermione said with an affectionate smile and glance to Harry, unknowingly echoing the same words that Harry had spoken earlier that summer in his confrontation with Lucius Malfoy.

Halfway through his own Transfiguration, Harry froze and glanced over at Hermione with wide, surprised eyes. The girl blinked, obviously confused at her best friend's strong reaction, and ventured a tentative, "…what is it?"

It was a moment more, however, before Harry was finally shaking his head and deciding to dismiss the coincidence. "No, it's nothing. I'm sorry if I startled you, 'Mione."

Still suspicious, the girl decided to wisely let it go.

* * *

That night—the night of November 1st: Samhain, All Saints Day, the Day of the Dead, all meanings of this day and all too apt for words in suiting Harry's mood—the green-eyed Slytherin took his wand and a thick cloak and slipped out of the castle, a pregnant moon high above lighting his way. The other three Champions had taken the day off to venture out into the Forbidden Forest to start on their Tasks, but… while it would have been nice to get started on things as soon as possible, the boy didn't want his schoolwork to suffer as a consequence.

It wasn't as if he _wanted _to participate in the first place, anyway.

As the boy made his way towards the Entrance Hall and the giant doors that would lead out of the school, Harry found himself surprised by the fact that Professor Snape waited for him just inside the doors. His guardian had a dour expression upon his face, and the green-eyed boy lowered his gaze as it occurred to him—belatedly, besides—that the Potions Master hadn't gone running to Dumbledore over the fact that Harry had used a _Dark_ spell the night before.

"Drink this," Professor Snape ordered as he handed his ward a flask. "It's a Frostbite Draught—taking it before you venture out will ensure that you won't get frostbite, or become overly chilled."

Cautiously, Harry took the flask from his guardian and quickly downed the potion, handing the vial back to the inscrutable man. "Thank you, sir," the boy eventually murmured when neither would say anything and both continued to look at the other, expression openly appraising.

Before Harry could go past him, however, the Potions Master reached out and gently clasped Harry's chin between two of his stained fingers, lightly tilting the boy's face up to be scrutinized. How was it that this jaded, cynical, _Dark_ child was the son of his most hated enemy and the woman who had brought light to his life? And how was it that he, _Severus Snape_ of all people, had custody over him? How was it that this child had already managed to fall so far, plunging down to the Abyss without anyone else noticing what was happening before their very eyes?

And it wasn't as if Harry would welcome a "rescue," either: his gaze was too calm, too centered—and there, just there, in a barely-noticeable line around the boy's pupil, and Professor Snape could see a thin ring of mahogany. Most others might mistake it for an odd shade of brown. But the Potions Master… he _knew_ what it was that he saw.

"It truly _was_ your choice," Professor Snape whispered, musing aloud as he allowed the pad of his thumb to brush over the too-long velvety-dark lashes of the Potter heir.

There was a drawn-out silence between them both.

Harry knew exactly what it was that the black-clad man was commenting on.

The boy shivered for a moment, eyes falling shut—though not for long. When he _did_ glance up at the older man again, Harry's gaze was steady. "…'and from the bottom stir the Hell within him; for within him Hell he brings, and 'round about him, nor from Hell one step, no more than from himself, can fly by change of place,'" the child whispered as the professor's eyebrows rose to reach his hairline. "Milton, _Paradise Lost_. It's the scene where Lucifer finally realizes that Hell's within him—that he can run, he can hide, he can cry and rage and rebel, but there is no escape: Hell has _become_ him. There is no escape, sir. I grew up in Hell, was _placed_ there very deliberately by the Headmaster. And like Lucifer, I can run, I can hide, I can cry and rage and rebel—but there's no true escape for something that has already become a part of you. So… you might as well accept it because it's 'better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n.' At some point, there's _no_ turning back. I know that it's been a very, very long time since I had reached that point, sir."

"And what of the future, Mr. Potter?"

Harry gave an absent shrug at that. "Embrace who you already are. Strive for what you might become. The Hat promised me that I would be great, and though this wasn't the original path that I had chosen for myself… no regrets. What's the point?"

The expression flickered across Professor Snape's face at the words: too quick for most to catch it, but Harry had seen and Harry committed it to memory—anguish. "You should _not_ have had to do this, should _not_ have had to make these choices—gone through these experiences. The Bloody Baron was right: injustices have been done to you."

"It doesn't matter anymore," Harry answered, reply perhaps a bit sharper than he had originally intended. "The choices were made and the path has been set. I know _what_ it is that I'll become—and I'll embrace _who_ I'll grow into and show the world what 'greatness' truly means."

It was absolutely heartbreaking, and Severus Snape was aware that Harry wouldn't even know _why_ it was so.

Carefully, the Potions Master let his hand fall away from Harry's face, inclining his head slightly in a gesture of respect that he had never thought he'd willingly give to another human being: not after the heavy yoke that now tied him to the Headmaster. "Pleasant hunting," the Dark wizard finally murmured.

Harry gave a quick smile at the blessing—not _yet_ realizing the alternate meaning behind the Potions Master's words—before reaching up to pull his hood up and over his head, obscuring his face. Heartbeats later, the Potions Master's Snake had disappeared from view.

Professor Snape continued to lean against the edge of the doorway for several minutes longer, watching as the full moon slowly rose up over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest, musing upon the past:

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches  
Born to those who have thrice defied him,  
born as the seventh month dies  
and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal,  
but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not  
and either must die at the hand of the other  
for neither can live while the other survives_

Odd, that, in how a child comes along with no knowledge of prophecy or destiny or Fate and instead completely shatters its _own_ pre-ordained destiny by the choices it makes while alone. That particular thought lingered longest in Professor Snape's mind but, eventually, the Potions Master softly sighed and pushed away from the doorframe to return to his quarters in the dungeons.

A rising young Dark Lord.

He could only pray that history would not repeat itself.

And yet…

And yet.

He would do nothing even if it did.

* * *

The Forbidden Forest was silent as Harry made his way through the trees, the tops so high up that they obscured the sky and hid the light of the moon from view. It was hard to forget that it was a full moon, though: far, far away, Harry could hear the echoing howl of a werewolf and the boy was reminded all too starkly of events that happened in this very same forest less than a year ago.

There was a danger that came with venturing into the Forbidden Forest at night, and Harry knew that that was why the other Champions had opted to come back to the castle once the sun went down. Funny, that: the one who didn't even want to be here also happened to be the one who grasped the symbolism in the hunt.

But perhaps that was because of his Muggle upbringing.

Since the moment he had learned to read, teacher after teacher had shoved books at him and the other students, piling on the Classics in the hopes that some intelligent thought would germinate within the developing minds and the teachers would _finally_ be able to teach someone who gave more thought to the books before them than what time their favorite show came on the telly or who got the highest score on their Gameboy. Harry had neither a telly nor a Gameboy, so the books did well enough.

He had read the stories of old, the myths that were considered ancient even by wizarding standards. When he had ranted about the Herculean tasks to Profesor Snape the night before, he _got_ that it—this First Task—was supposed to be a parallel, a reference to stories that most wizards didn't find themselves familiar with. But Harry was familiar with the stories, and he fully intended on using the knowledge to have what little advantage he could afford in this competition.

November 1st had always had so many meanings, so much symbolism attached to it, and the boy could only snort at the thought over how apt everything was that the names had been picked on All Hallows' Eve and the actual start of the Tournament had begun today: not very uplifting.

And the golden hind…?

A golden deer, sacred to Artemis: virgin goddess of the moon, of the hunt.

Which was why this was a 'Wild Hunt.'

Unfortunately, though, Harry wasn't feeling very virginal at the moment. Not after coming to the discover that the mark—great bloody hickey as it was—hadn't faded in _weeks_ after the phantom's visit to him in the Hospital Wing, and not after knowing _exactly_ how his delving into the Dark Arts had tarnished his magical core and dimmed it from its one-time heart's fire tint—nevermind the fact that the choice was his, had _always_ been his.

The boy tiredly rubbed at his face as he continued making his way deeper into the forest, weaving amongst the trees and hoping that he wouldn't encounter anything too dangers. Then again, the Forbidden Forest was forbidden for a reason: people died in here. Sometimes they even got _eaten_.

_Haaarry…_

The boy froze suddenly, gaze darting about him, and promptly began to lengthen his stride in the hopes that, perhaps, he would be able to escape this. He knew, even before his pace quickened, that it was a futile gesture: but it was a rebellious one, too, and the boy took comfort in that.

The Voice turned amused: _Haaarry… you cannot run from this._

"No, I know that," the Slytherin answered, voice congenial as he very deliberately refused to glance to the side where the dark silhouette had finally materialized. "But it's still fun to try—and just think of all the calories that I manage to burn the longer that I stay away from you."

_You did not seem very eager to get away from me before_, the Voice logically pointed out.

"I was young and stupid then," Harry answered, nevermind the fact that The Incident had only occurred several weeks before. "Your magic—then, I mean, in the Infirmary—temporarily short-circuited my brain. I got overwhelmed—_at the time_—but now's not then. I've been thinking since our… encounter. And it dawned on me, belatedly though it was, that if I let you come any closer, you'll completely dominate me, my whole person, and you'll crush it out of existence. I _will not_ allow that."

The Voice's reply was thoughtful, the silhouette fading in and out of sight though, no matter how many times it disappeared completely, Harry could see see the faint throb of Dark magic. _So certain of my intentions, are you…?_

The look that Harry spared the silhouette was the epitome of sardonic. "Enough," the boy murmured, gesturing with one hand. "I'm tired of skirting around the issue: Yes, I know that that is what you will end up doing because that is who you _are_. Your power is destructive—_I can see that it is so_—and it's obvious that you have no idea about how _I_ am. I survived my family's treatment: _I survived_. I will allow nothing to take away that accomplishment, that victory over my relatives. You? I _know_ better. You intrigue me but _I will not give in_. Go away."

The silhouette seemed very much taken aback by the boy's vehemence, and it was a long time before the Dark phantom could reply. _The bond will allow neither of us to leave the other—we are tied by Fate, you and I_, the Voice murmured contemplatively as it reached out to caress fingertips over the Cupid's bow of the teen's bottom lip before dipping the slim fingers past Harry's slightly parted lips to touch the tip of his tongue.

Of course, the boy bit him.

The silhouette yelped at the sudden flash of pain, immediately withdrawing its hand; Harry's mouth was covered in blood: with eyes that were fierce with intent and lips that were stained red, the child looked feral, barely human—one who belonged, truly, to the Wild Hunt.

"I don't believe in Fate. I make my own," the Slytherin snapped, furious that the other would think so little of him that Harry would fall for a line, a concept, as drastically simple as _that_.

The Dark presence hissed in anger at the boy's words—afraid, perhaps, of the child's strength, that it was greater than his own. How easily Harry spoke those words, made those assumptions—and, already, the boy was so different than what the prophecy had foretold. It gave truth to his words and lie to the phantom's own. _You cannot avoid this forever, child._

"No, I know that," Harry said simply, green eyes piercing as they stared up into the shadowed features of his one-time mysterious presence. "But at least I can make it on my _own_ terms, Voldemort."

There was a quiet, indrawn breath when the boy finally said the name that lay between the two of them, throwing it down like a gauntlet, the challenge finally given—before Harry released the magic that he had been gathering over the course of their conversation. In one quick burst, he released it so that he might banish the presence from his immediate vicinity. It wasn't a _permanent_ exorcism, but Harry _really_ wasn't up to debating tonight.

His choices had been made, the die had been cast: _Alea iacta est_. But, lately, it seemed that his decisions had started a snowball effect, spiraling out on the verge of not-control, pinballing away from him to effect others, to give the opportunity for others to affect _him_. There was no turning back now—there was only the ability to move forward—but at times, like now with Harry huddled in on himself at the foot of the tree, the Slytherin was starkly reminded that he was only fourteen.

_He was only fourteen_.

* * *

It was a long time later that Harry felt as if he had himself—somewhat—under control, and it was at that point that the boy finally eased up from his sitting position amongst the roots. Stretching to warm stiff muscles, the little Snake sighed and ran his fingers through unruly hair before gathering himself together to head deeper into the forest.

In the end, it didn't matter if he was having a personal crisis, that he was starting to fell choices making their way away from him: Harry would try to maintain as much control as he possibly could, and… the rest would be dealt with when necessary.

He knew—knew, from past experiences—that it wasn't a good idea to constantly push things off, push things off, let things remain until the last possible moment: but now was a time in which he _could not afford_ to deal with concerns, with his fears, with anything not related to surviving the Tournament. And so Harry buried them all, knowing full well that by doing so, he made the bends and corners and jagged edges of his _self _brittle and more prone to breaking.

But he had no other choice.

* * *

Midnight passed with the trickling, tick-tocking slip of the witching hours passing passively by, and it wasn't until dawn broke and painted the horizon in shades of rose and the sweetness of youth's blush that Harry headed back to the castle empty-handed.

Thankfully, it was a Saturday—which meant that Harry could immediately go to bed once he got back to the Slytherin dormitories. If he wanted to, except for the fact that the boy wasn't in the mood. Instead, he collapsed on one of the benches at his Table in the Great Hall, poking silently at the mug in front of him and staring at it expectantly.

Almost immediately, rich, dark coffee began to fill the mug while Harry's eyes gleamed hungrily. Before it reached the very top of the lip, sugar was added as well as dark chocolate—both additions to his morning brew that typically raised eyebrows—but it tasted good, contained the same amount of caffeine as pure-black coffee would, and usually helped get him through the day.

Greedy for the perk-up, Harry downed the drink quickly before putting the mug down once again and watching as it refilled itself with the brew that sustained Harry most mornings. It was while his attention remained raptly upon the slowly filling mug that Hermione, early riser that she was, came down to the Great Hall and made a beeline for the Slytherin Table.

"Good morning!" she chirped, slamming down a book next to Harry and earning a surprisingly dirty look from the boy as he cradled his mug of coffee protectively. She smirked at that, forgoing the 'Rough night?' comment and instead immediately launched into lecture mode as to what she had found out the evening before.

"It's all just a giant trick," she told Harry smugly.

"Huh?" was his intelligent reply.

"The First Task. It's all just a trick," Hermione continued. "I was doing some reading last night when you went out adventuring, and I discovered some things about your Golden Hind—or, more commonly known as the Ceryneian Hind." The girl looked _much_ too pleased with herself, and thus Harry quirked an eyebrow in inquiry, sipping at his dark, life-giving brew. "You and the other three Champions have been looking at it all wrong."

"_Huh?_" Harry repeated with a pointed look, hoping that Hermione would soon enough clarify herself before he throttled her for her early morning good humor.

The bookish Gryffindor giggled softly at that and promptly opened to the middle of the text that she had brought down. "All right, so your ranting about this being a Herculean task got me thinking—and then I did some reading—and I came to the realization that it really is a Herculean task. Did you know that it took Heracles a full year to catch the hind and that he had to chase it all throughout Greece, Thrace, Istria, and the land of the Hyperboreans? A full _year_ until he managed to catch it, and you and the other three Champions have been given a _month_. It's impossible, Harry."

"Tell me about it," the boy muttered darkly, glaring at his mug. "While I didn't expect to really find anything on the first night out, I still didn't see any trace of it. It's like it doesn't exist."

"It doesn't," Hermione said, to which Harry abruptly snapped his head up to look at her, eyes wide with shock. She gave him a sad smile and a one shouldered shrug, and then the girl continued, "Headmaster Dumbledore gave you and the others a month to catch the golden hind. From November 1st to November 30th. The timeline is very specific. Why?"

Harry's gaze turned inwards at that, and the boy's fingers drummed quietly on the Slytherin Table as he thought. "…something must happen during this month, something related to the Herculean task—or the legend."

"Yes, yes, yes!" Hermione whispered excitedly. "That's exactly what I thought and so I did some more investigation. I looked into other meanings of the legend, what other connotations that there could be, and—oh, _Harry_! It's the constellation! The Hercules constellation is sometimes referred to as the Stag, there's all these links back to the legend. See, here…" The girl opened the book to the page that she was about to reference, finger skimming along the entry until she got to the part that she wanted, "_The constellation Hercules, the Stag, can be found close to the constellation Sagitta, the Arrow… The relationship between these two constellations is oftentimes a rocky one, full of strife and misunderstanding, due to the fact that Artemis drew her arrow at Heracles while he hunted her Hind, the animal most sacred to her worship… and there remains, too, the fact that the direction of the Arrow makes it appear as if the constellation of the Stag is trying to outrun its true aim…_"

Harry frowned, considering it over. True, it made sense and could easily be another interpretation of the Task, and yet… something still felt off about all of this. The _timeframe _allotted still didn't make sense.

"Can I borrow your book for a minute, 'Mione?" Harry asked, taking the book from his best friend when Hermione handed it over. He paged through the various sections, checking the timeframe, checking the importance of the month of November, and then… "Hercules rises when the sun is in the sign of Scorpio," he murmured.

"Which happens _when_~?" Hermione asked, practically radiating smugness.

"The last week of November," Harry whispered.

Clapping brightly with pleasure that she had helped solve the riddle that Dumbledore had presented to the four students, the girl preened beneath Harry's praise-laden gaze. "And that means," she commented with a small smirk, "that you have an entire month to figure out what the First Task _really_ is. Though—and it's just a suggestion, mind—I would probably suggest starting with the people who know the stars and its meanings like the backs of their hands. A people, too, who _just so happen_ to live in the Forbidden Forest~"

"Has anyone ever told you that you're the cleverest witch of the age?" Harry asked with a bright, happy smile on his face; Hermione was just relieved to see the shadows that had begun to enter the bright green of his eyes fade slightly away, leaving the color clearer than she had seen in a very long time. It… meant a lot, _so much_, knowing that she had managed to give her best friend _hope_.

"Yes," Hermione answered, smile softening. "You."

* * *

_Bonfire Night_ had always been Harry's favorite night in the Muggle world.

There was something magical about the way that the fires scattered throughout the countryside lit up the night—something earthy, something primeval, something that took humanity back to its roots, the moment when it first stood up on two legs and walked away to embrace eternity.

"Remember, remember, the fifth of November…" Hermione murmured softly as she came up behind Harry's form. She comfortably rested her chin upon his bony shoulder, joining him in looking out over the ramparts from the top of the Astronomy tower to the world down below.

"Gunpowder, treason, and plot," Harry whispered in answer, continuing the rhyme that they had grown up listening to all of their lives.

The Gryffindor smiled absently at that, though there was nothing particularly _nice_ within the poem to smile _at_. "I can see no reason why gunpowder, treason, should ever be forgot."

"You know, I sometimes forget that it's Guy Fawkes' Day—even though it happened to be my favorite holiday growing up," the boy mused aloud, tilting his head to the side so that he could lightly bump against Hermione's. "Everything's so different here in the wizarding world. Sometimes I love it; sometimes I get tired of it all. A lot of times, I wish that things were different."

"It'll get better again—_they'll _get better again," Hermione whispered, voice dropping lower so that the students around them (as well as Professor Sinistra) couldn't hear her. "Everyone's just angry and shocked by the thought that you had somehow managed to get into the Tournament—something that not even the Twins had managed to do. I saw their attempt, by the way, pathetic as it was, but everyone was rooting for at least _one_ of the younger years to somehow triumph as the third Champion."

Harry snorted derisively. "And here I am, Harry Potter, the _fourth_ Triwizard Champion."

"And you'll be the _winner_ of the Triwizard Tournament," Hermione promised, eyes intent as Harry glanced at her in surprise, eyes wide at the connotations of her words. She knew that she wasn't being very fair to Viktor, and though she adored him… Harry was her best friend, and she was the only one who currently supported him. At the moment, Harry needed her _more_. She gave the boy, _her_ boy, a subdued smile and pointed out over the horizon. "Look, Harry. Scorpio is finally starting its ascent."

Eighteen more days until Hercules began to rise.

Twenty-five more until time finally ran short.

* * *

* If you got the fact that these two quotes were from _A Very Potter Musical_, I would like to propose my undying love for you right now. *gets down on one knee* And yes, I love _AVPM_'s Draco and think that the part was played _brilliantly_. Love, love, love~ ;D *twirls happily* Though, honestly, everyone was amazing. But I have a soft spot for rolling!Little D. XDXD

Link for you (i.e., the opening song for the musical)! Totally download~_  
Back to Hogwarts_ – www[dot]megaupload[dot]com[backslash]?d=MVQJWEPI


	15. Chapter 15

_Author's Note:_ …aaaaand… here's chapter fifteen! As a brief note, I just wanted to quickly comment on the disappointment that people feel over the childishness of Draco's jealousy. Before everyone writes him off as a waste, however, I just wanted to bring up his childhood: blondie has always had (most) everything given to him on a silver platter. He has a _long_ way to go in order to grow up. But there _is_ potential for something great—Slytherins, after all, hold ambition and greatness in high esteem. Luckily for you all, however, this theme—greatness, and what _makes_ a person great—are two of the core elements in this story. ;) Also, I also wanted to say that I'm glad that tons of you all appreciated the _AVPM_ references last chapter. XD Happy to have provided a laugh~  
Anyway, short chapter this time around—sorry!—but I figured that you all would have wanted to have something to read for the usual Saturday despite the recent updates (back to regular schedule after this; y'all are just lucky because I've been sick and bored). Besides, this chapter is important: The die have been cast.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

As Harry pulled the bedsheets back so that he might slip beneath them to go to bed, the Slytherin paused momentarily and looked down at the leather-bound book with a bemused expression. Slightly, he shifted his position so that no one else could see the little gift given to him, and the teen reached out and trailed his fingertips over the cursive print of the title of the ancient tome: _Moste Drydfull ynd Deydlee of Darke Spelles Knouwest Byy Alle Mannes_.

It was a book that Harry remembered seeing in the Malfoy library, one that he had lingered over and had wanted to read the next time that he came to visit. He thought that no one had noticed his intrigue—except for the one time that Aunt Narcissa had come across him running his hands along the edges in a reverent manner. She had quirked a smile at that, pressed a kiss to the top of his head, and promised him that he could spend time with the text "next time."

It seemed as if the Malfoy matriarch had decided to tip her hand in helping the men in her life rectify their mistakes with Harry. The thought was one that brought a small smirk to the green-eyed boy's lips, and he glanced up to see Draco staring at him.

Caught, the Malfoy heir quickly glanced away, a slightly blush dusting across his cheeks as he made to settle into bed. Harry just barely refrained from laughing as he, too, slipped beneath the covers, new bedtime reading material clasped possessively in his hands.

While Uncle Lucius and Draco still had a great ways to go before Harry considered them forgiven, the gift of the book did manage to cool his temper. A little bit, anyway.

Humming beneath his breath, the raven-haired boy spelled his drapes closed, cast a bright _Lumos_, and began to read, eyes drinking in the words that had been written in a crabbed hand upon the pages held between his hands. And, _oh_, his bedtime reading material was already finding itself to be _most_ interesting. Harry caressed lightly over the Table of Contents, verdant eyes gleaming in anticipation of actually _finally_ getting the chance to learn all of these various spells at his leisure: the _power_ that he would gain from it, the _knowledge_ as well... And what made things even more perfect was the fact that Harry knew that this would be just the first of many other gifts (books, most likely) that the Malfory patriarch and heir would send to try and get back in his good graces.

_I would advise putting a ward around the book while it remains in your possession at Hogwarts_, a breathy voice suggested, which caused Harry to pause in his reading to glance up; he met the pale eyes of the Bloody Baron, head tilting to the side to look the ghost over—a ghost that he or any of the other Slytherins were able to hardly ever interact with.

"Why are you here?" the boy eventually, asked, gesturing towards the enclosed space of his bed—and frankly relieved that the ghost hadn't decided to pay a visit during an inopportune time and only when Harry had been reading.

_You intrigue me_, came the frank answer—to that, Harry just rolled his eyes.

"All right," the green-eyed teen said, figuring that he might as well let _that _particular topic go: it was highly unlikely that the Bloody Baron would be willing to give an open answer regarding his true reason. The ghost, after all, _was_ a Slytherin—dead and long gone, but some traits remained after the grave. "Then why are you suggesting that I put wards upon the book? Uncle Lucius already did so."

_Ah_, the ghost began, chuckling quietly. _Lucius Malfoy may be a talented wizard and his enchantments might be strong enough to last in most places, but the wards of Hogwarts have been instructed to eat away at and deteriorate any ward found within its premises that have been spelled to specifically hide anything Dark in nature._

Harry blinked. "I didn't know that," the boy mused thoughtfully, glancing down at the book on his lap as he caressed lightly over the faded gilt. While at Malfoy Manor, there had been no need to hide the book's true nature and Harry had remembered just how deliciously Dark it had been to his senses. But if the wards of Hogwarts could detect the hidden, _true_ nature… "Why have me reset the wards, then, if the book will still be discovered in the end?"

The Bloody Baron's head tilted back at Harry's question, and the sinister sound of truly amused laughter echoed within the confines of Harry's four-poster. _Because the same rules do not apply to you, Little Snake. Lucius' ward will fade in time and the book will be taken from you—and you and others will find yourselves in great turmoil as a result. However… ah, however, the same result will not happen for a person capable of manipulating the Hogwarts wards…_

Harry glanced sidelong at the ghost, expression closed-off and slightly dubious.

In answer, the Bloody Baron smirked. _No need to fear of my telling,_ the ghost said, voice cunning and sly. _My first loyalty remains to the House, not the school. And besides, my Little Snake, you have been providing more entertainment for me than I've been able to enjoy for centuries. Why cut it short now?_

Expression still dubious, Harry managed to murmur a quiet "Thank you, sir." before reaching out to pluck from thin air, aware all the while of the Bloody Baron's eyes on him, a circling probe sent by the castle at the first taste of the ward that Uncle Lucius had used upon the tome. Harry's eyes glowed with a muted light as the boy's head tilted to the side, hands quick as he physically dismantled the spell to reassemble it into a ward that the school should hopefully consider "safe." His actions, the ease with which he handled the magic proved to the Bloody Baron that this was not the first time that Harry had done such a task—and the questions and curiosities that that arose!

The Bloody Baron watched it all with eyes that were bright with delight. When Harry was finished and the book had been rewarded against Hogwarts itself, the smile that the dead man gave to the child was frightening indeed. _You may call me Gilles de Rais._

He eventually faded from sight and Harry shivered slightly when he was finally alone. The boy didn't know whether to be concerned, flattered, or absolutely terrified at knowing that he had the Slytherin House's ghost watching after him.

* * *

"Harry, my dear boy, I would like you to walk with me," the Hogwarts Headmaster murmured with a grandfatherly, jovial smile as he made his way down from the Head Table to interrupt Harry's dinner.

The boy gave a forlorn look at his not-yet-finished supper, and finally sighed as he pushed away from the table. The teen followed after his Headmaster, giving a quick smile at Hermione's concerned look as they made their way past the Gryffindor Table and headed towards the Entrance Hall.

The two wizards walked silently for a while whilst Dumbledore led them towards the doors of the Entrance Hall: before they could step outside, the elderly man slipped his arm with Harry's so that the two could meander arm-in-arm during their walk.

Harry remained silently throughout it all, and it was Dumbledore who was first forced to break the tension between the two of them. "I've been rather worried about you, dear boy. You haven't been venturing out into the Forbidden Forest as often as the other three Champions have. Have you already given up on the First Task?"

"No," Harry said simply as he carefully extracted his arm from the old man's, lengthening his stride so that he could walk a little before Dumbledore. "I just don't really see a point in venturing out into the dangerous, deadly forest that's filled with man-eating creatures until the _time_ is right. I don't like the thought of wasting my studies when the search for your Golden Hind is pointless."

If anything, however, that comment made Dumbledore smile brightly.

"Ah! I see that you've seen through our trick for the First Task, then. I'll be sure to let Firenze know that—"

The boy sighed quietly, gesturing for the older wizard to stop speaking. When Dumbledore fell silent, surprised at the boy's actions, Harry turned around to face the old man completely. "…why are you suddenly expressing concern for me?" the Slytherin asked, voice frank as he moved straightforwardly towards the crux of the matter. "When my name was withdrawn from the Goblet, you immediately assumed that I had done this on purpose. Now there's this charade—this false concern over my progress. Headmaster, what do you want from me?"

Albus Dumbledore blinked at that, taken aback by the very fact that this boy—this Slytherin—was being surprisingly blunt with him when all Slytherins, everywhere, would have preferred to dance around the topic at hand. It was with this thought in mind that Dumbledore's reply was as cautious as it was. "Can't a Headmaster be worried for his Champion?"

"Then why haven't you asked Cedric Diggory for a walk?" Harry pointedly out logically. "By singling me out the way that you are right now, everyone will think that you're giving me advice or hints regarding the Tasks—which means, of course, that everything that I do from this point on will be looked upon and scrutinized carefully. I'll be even more of a 'cheat' in the eyes of the school. Why are you doing this to me?"

The boy's words… they stung, surprisingly so. Dumbledore hadn't intended for any of that to happen—at least, no intentionally—when he had asked Harry out for the walk. He had wanted to see, truly, how the boy was faring since he was so much younger than the other Champions. Yes, the Headmaster knew that he had overreacted in the room with the others—during the interrogation—and he was ashamed for those actions, particularly since those actions had been so public. Was hoping, as well, to try and make amends for this show of concern for the boy.

"I was honestly just concerned for your well-being, my dear boy," Dumbledore said, voice quiet. Even the twinkle in his eyes was subdued as he stared at the child who looked at him with Lily's eyes, the child whose gaze was already so flat.

Harry laughed at that and turned away. "Then, perhaps I should adjust my inquiry, Headmaster. Why the sudden concern over my well-being now when you thought it fit to ignore it for ten years beforehand?"

The change in topic took Dumbledore by surprise. "Pardon?"

Harry knew that it was unwise to bring up this specific wound: it was one, he knew, that would never heal. Nothing would come of poking at it, especially after the ramifications that had come about the previous year. But, like a sore tooth, the Slytherin couldn't help but poke at it: even if it meant laying all of his cards out on the table, even temporarily.

"I've always wondered why you saw it fit to leave me with the Dursleys, Headmaster."

Dumbledore's eyes lit with sudden comprehension, and he reached out to lightly rest a hand upon Harry's shoulder, lightly squeezing with affection. "Ah, I had to, Harry, had to hide you away from the remaining danger within the wizarding world, my dear boy. You were safe with your mother's sister and her family. It was for the greater good of the wizarding world, as well, that our Boy-Who-Lived grew up not knowing of his fame."

The Headmaster's words were enough to cause Harry to still, frozen and lifeless beneath the old man's touch. When the boy did not move for several long moments, did not respond, Dumbledore gently shook the teen. "…Harry? Are you all right?"

It was with infinite care that Harry slowly moved out from beneath Dumbledore's hold upon him. His movements were effortlessly graceful, fingers and wrists elegant in their movements as the boy reached up to tug at his tie before working at the buttons to his crisp shirt. With nimble, Seeker fingers, it didn't take long before Harry had undone his shirt part-way: pulling the shirt away from the area that Dumbledore had clasped, the teen bared pale skin and revealed the nasty, jagged scar that Dudley had given him when he was seven after pushing him through a window.

"And what of _my_ good?" the boy asked simply.

Dumbledore swallowed at that, staring at the ugly scar for a long moment before he made himself look away; lashes lowering to veil his gaze, the Headmaster brought his hands up in an attempt at a placating gesture. "My dear boy, there is always so much more to consider in these types of things."

Harry's eyes went flat, and the boy glanced away.

As he began to rebutton his shirt and redo his tie, the Headmaster offered up a small smile and stepped forward once more to again rest his hand on Harry's shoulder, thumb rubbing over where he now knew the scar to lay: offering up a silent apology to the teen. "Ah, but that's all in the past now, isn't it? And there is also the fact that things are better now, aren't they? I know that you and dear Severus get along well, and…"

The angry hiss cut him off before Dumbledore could get very far with his excuses.

And, oh, the _rage_ in the boy's eyes—the fury that he didn't bother to hide when he looked up to meet Dumbledore's robin's egg blue gaze. Only once before had he seen rage so strong and—once again—Dumbledore couldn't help but be afraid that he had made yet another mistake. A huge, erroneous mistake when thinking of the greater good—perhaps, yes, at the detriment to one child… but surely it couldn't…? With the entire world to think of, to consider…?

Very carefully, Harry murmured, "Je ne te quitternai point que je ne t'aie vu pendu.*"

It was only until after he had carefully annunciated those words that Harry stepped away from his Headmaster to make his way back to the castle. He moved like a pureblood, deadly like a predator, and—yes—Dumbledore was reminded of one other, the other that he had dismissed and cast aside decades before.

History had come to collect its due, had come to repeat itself.

With his legs trembling, the old man's knees gave out and he had to flail slightly, groping for something steady, something solid, to brace himself against as the full realization dawned on him: the repercussions of his own and others' actions, the mistakes he had unintentionally made come full circle.

The road to Hell was paved with good intentions.

"What have I done?" Dumbledore whispered as he brought a shaky hand up to cover his eyes; for the first time in decades, the elderly wizard finally—truly—felt his age. He could no longer ignore the stirrings within Hogwarts, the way that the castle responded to a presence within herself: the castle was enchanted with something, some_one_, and he could feel the wards slipping away from his control a little more each and every day. The power, the sheer amount of power that was slowly unveiling itself as the presence learned, practiced, and came closer to its majority hour by hour: Dumbledore found himself afraid.

He had stared into the faintly red-rimmed eyes of a rising Dark Lord.

…and Dumbledore could not bring himself to loathe the child for that choice.

* * *

* Je ne te quitternai point que je ne t'aie vu pendu. | "I will not leave you until I have seen you hanged." – Jean Baptiste Poquelin Moliere; _Le Medecin Malgre Lui_ (III, 9)


	16. Chapter 16

_Author's Note:_ Happy Valentine's Day~ I don't have a sweetheart (Bleh. *waves Singles Awareness Day flags proudly and with fervor*), so instead I offer up a present to all of you. Hopefully it's something that you'll enjoy? ;) Anyway, re: last chapter - Not gonna lie—I _reaaaaaaaally_ don't like Dumbledore, and I'm trying very, very, _very_ hard not to (overly) bash him in the story. I mean, yes, I dislike him. A lot. I can understand why he did what he did to Harry. Do I agree? Um, _no_. But I still want to give him a somewhat fair portrayal. But just wanted to let you all know that when it comes down to the Wizard Lighting Battle, I will totally be cheering Voldemort and Harry on, flailing about and yelling out, "JUST KILL HIM WITH YOUR AWESOME!"

Lastly! Here's the chapter that a ton of you have been begging from me in emails for quite a while now. XD Sentimental, I know, but I thought that it'd… fun… to wait until V-Day. *cackles*

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

It was surprising just how easy it was for Harry to think of Professor Snape's personal lab as a sanctuary. Even when he had no detentions to serve with his Head of House, the teen still found himself showing up to help with what he could—discovering, perhaps to both males' shock, that Harry found the preparation of potions ingredients soothing.

His hands were proficient—nothing less than perfection was expected when under Professor Snape's tutelage—and quick with the knife as Harry diced the ginger root to add to the jar that would soon be sealed and put under a Stasis Charm once it had been filled to the brim.

The boy was lost in his thoughts, and Professor Snape allowed him to remain so:

Some nights passed between the two of them when neither spoke, neither saying a word to the other. Nods, gestures, and the subtle understanding of each other's body language was able to suffice. However, the Slytherin Head of House knew that tonight would be different—from the way that Harry's shoulders remained tense, despite the calming motions of cutting the roots evenly, the older man knew that it would eventually come to a crux when Harry would break the silence and speak.

Professor Snape did not expect for Harry to finish his chores first, however. James Potter would have burst out immediately, disregarding the assignment given to him; anxious to share his woes, everything else would have been forgotten as he waited for the sympathy and attention he believed was owed to him. Harry, however… the boy thought of the words that he would say, mulled over the different ways that the conversation could go. Reserved, the boy was, and not surprising considering the childhood that Harry had grown up with—a parallel with the same childhood that Professor Snape had managed to survive, though with his own set of scars.

And though the Potions Master would never say it aloud…

This boy that stood next to him was more _his_ than he would ever be Potter's.

That knowledge filled Severus Snape with a dark sort of masculine, smug satisfaction: having the last and final triumph over his lifelong nemesis, knowing that though physical features may have looked similar, Harry Potter was more the son of Severus Snape's soul than James Potter's. And how that realization must have made the one-time Potter heir roll over in his grave.

As Harry sliced the last of the ginger root and pushed it aside so that he might place it in its respective jar, the Potions Master reached out and settled his hand lightly on the boy's shoulder. He was confused, then, when instead of relaxing as Harry normally did, the fourteen year-old instead stiffened.

"I was foolish and had a Gryffindor moment when I allowed my anger to take precedence over my actions," the green-eyed teen commented off-handedly before beginning to scoop the root into its jar.

The admission was enough to make Professor Snape narrow his eyes at the boy. "Oh?" he asked, venturing into a simple inquiry—hoping that that was the safest approach when the tension radiating off of the boy spiked higher still.

"Mmm. The Headmaster took me aside for a stroll earlier today," Harry admitted lightly before taking more ingredients to prepare for his professor. "Near the end of dinner; you were busy with Longbottom's detention, so you missed it when it happened." Suddenly afraid of what Harry would be telling him, the man's hold tightened briefly. "He said he wanted to see how I was handling the Tournament, to see if I was doing all right with the First Task."

Harry snorted in amusement.

"It used to be fun, watching him try to backpedal and manipulate things when he thought that other people weren't looking. It _used_ to be fun, being the operate words, I suppose… But I guess that I'm just finally tired of it all. Most of the school thinks that I cheated and despise the very air that I breathe. My own House gifts me with suspicious looks no matter how united everyone acts in front of the other Houses. But even my own House can't help but wonder, I know: Famous Harry Potter, famous Parselmouth and current enigma—did he do it? If so, how? Will he even be good enough to represent our House in the upcoming Tournament? No one says their thoughts aloud. But I can still hear them."

Professor Snape shook his head slightly at that, giving Harry's shoulder a warning squeeze. "Mr. Potter, I do hope that you're fully aware that you're being overly dramatic right now…"

Harry glanced over his shoulder then, mutely meeting Professor Snape's dark gaze. And the professor fell silent at that, attention caught by those _eyes_.

"I _hate_ him, you know. But I know that you do—realize that I hate him, I mean," the boy continued conversationally. "After all… He left me at the Dursleys, and I don't have enough of a heart to forgive him for that. Did you know, sir, that the first touch that I can remember is my aunt hitting me in the head with a frying pan? Other memories aren't much better, either. I didn't even know that my name was 'Harry Potter' until I started school—I had always thought that it was 'freak.' And he left me with those people. I was supposed to go and live with my godfather. But he was sent to Azkaban, innocent, without a trial."

Knowing where this was leading, Professor Snape gently shook the boy within his hold, eyes wide and slightly panicked. "Potter—stop—"

But Harry did not stop. Could not stop.

"So I asked the Headmaster why he did it. And his response?" Here, Harry laughed, bitter and angry and with eyes flashing—completely, for the first time—crimson. Muted hellfire burned, and Severus Snape wondered for the first time in his life that, if he prayed, if anyone would answer his call. "That I had been left with _them_ for the _greater good_. I showed him one of the scars that Dudley gave to me when I was younger. And he said that it was okay because it had been done for the _greater good_ and, besides!, it was all now in the past."

The Potions Master closed his eyes, one hand coming up to cover the closed lids in an unfortunate parallel of Dumbledore's own anguish. "…what did you do, Harry?" the professor asked, wondering just how much more complicated this entire situation had become due to one adolescent's pain and bitterness.

"I threw down the gauntlet."

"Merlin preserve us," Professor Snape whispered—wondering just then how much longer Harry would be allowed at the school before Dumbledore somehow managed to drive him out and how much longer, too, it would be until his own loyalties were scrutinized once more. How much longer until Professor Snape had to again choose a side in the battle that was to come. "You fool. You _fool_!"

The teen's head snapped up at the accusation, and the green of his eyes flared dangerously in his anger. "Better to be a fool than senselessly, thoughtlessly cruel!" Harry snarled, jerking away from Professor Snape as his feet began to move quickly, the green-eyed Snake pacing back and forth across the floor of the lab. He came to a standstill suddenly, turning about and pointing a finger at his Head of House. "The look in your eyes is _exactly like mine_. You _understand_, more than anyone else, just what type of hell I went through at the Dursleys—_you were the one that took me from them_. And I hate him for putting me there in the first place! I'll _kill him_ for the pain he put me through, and I want to make _him_ suffer the way that _I _suffered—the way that _you_ suffered. The way that _Voldemort_ suffered."

Any retort that Professor Snape might have made stilled in his mouth, and his complexion went waxen. "….the Dark Lord?" he asked, voice a hoarse whisper.

Harry scrubbed at his face before turning away, a dark frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I get dreams, sometimes. Well… more often nowadays, anyway. Flashes, snippets, nothing too long or too revealing—but the dreams still come. It always features a child or a teen, and I recognized the magical center. I don't know his real name, but I _know_ that it's Voldemort."

And the image that had stuck longest with Harry:

The boy seemed to be ten or eleven, wane and pale with dark circles beneath his eyes. For two days straight, objects had levitated around him, floating carefully—steady, strong, and would not come down no matter how hard a sobbing orphanage matron tugged on them. It hadn't mattered, previously, just how much control the boy had over his magic beforehand: _something_ had happened, something that Hary hadn't been privy to, to trigger the explosion of excessive magic. And then, afraid, the orphanage's matron had contacted one of the priests from the Anglican church down the road. They had performed an exorcism, one that had lasted for nearly a solid week—attempt after attempt to "banish the demons from the child's unholy body."

Then Dumbledore had arrived.

The then-Deputy Headmaster could not have missed the signs of malnourishment and lack of sleep, the abuse done to the boy's slim body from the cane that the priest had beat him with. There had been sympathy from the old man in the beginning, true, but the moment the child mentioned that he could talk to snakes… the sympathy had faded and left behind a blank mask.

So, yes.

Harry and Professor Snape, the teen knew, were not the first cases of a bad childhood that the Headmaster had overlooked—and, perhaps, each time the old man would always tell himself that he should do nothing for the "greater good." How the Slytherin _hated_ that phrase.

Preconceptions, assumptions without a basis for fact: arguments one gave to one's self to persuade, to reassure, to decide upon the fact that _nothing_ should be done. It was the way that so many sat on their hands that Harry hated the most, the hypocrisy that so many displayed without realizing the depths of their own twistedness. It was the well-meaning cruelty that had made Harry finally… _stop_.

Stop fighting.

Stop hiding.

Stop trying to pretend that everything was acceptable when it _wasn't_. The childhood that Harry had had would always remain with him; the abuse and the neglect would linger for years, perhaps even for the rest of his life, and Harry found himself wondering if Voldemort and Professor Snape sometimes laid awake at night, the way that he did, staring at his wrists and wondering if cutting into the thin skin would be enough to make the soul-deep weariness finally fade.

But the boy wasn't brave enough to see and, with furtive glances at Professor Snape's wrists as they worked, Harry could see that the older man had kept himself from that exploration, as well. And Voldemort…? The Dark Lord had somehow managed to rise above it all to make himself immortal: Harry didn't know if that made the man the biggest coward amongst them all, or the bravest of them.

The professor interrupted his train of thoughts by sighing quietly and massaging his temples. "Why couldn't you have just _waited_?" the Potions Master asked, voice exhausted. "Until you were gone from Hogwarts, out from under his control; now the Headmaster will be doing whatever he can to push you out of the school and, if that's not possible, he'll be keeping an even closer eye on you. This was done to your own detriment. So… why? _Why_ did you do this, you idiotic child?"

The boy fell silent before finally reaching across the distance that separated the two of them. Fingers careful and moving slowly so that Professor Snape knew exactly what it was that he was doing, Harry pushed up the sleeve of the left side of the older man's robe. Idly, the green-eyed Slytherin's fingers trailed slowly over the Dark Mark; a spark escaped from his fingertips and the snake within the mark flicked its tongue in curiosity at the taste of the familiar magic. Harry smiled and let his fingers caress over the body of the serpent, and the creature shivered in pleasure—and Severus Snape echoed its gesture.

Simply: "Don't you ever get tired of hiding?"

And how the Potions Master despised himself for his moment of weakness, but he still murmured a quiet, "I do. _Always_." Harry's face lit up at that particular answer, and something within Professor Snape's chest constricted at the look within the boy's eyes. He knew that it was better not to ask, and his own dark gaze met vivid verdant-green. Springtime green, Lily's beautiful shade of green. But Lily had never found need for those emotions roiling in the depths of Harry's eyes.

"I promise that you won't always have to hide, sir," the boy said, and the Dark Mark blackened to pure pitch at the teen's vow. The darkening wasn't just for Professor Snape's Mark, either: it turned midnight-black for every man and woman who had sworn their loyalty to the Dark Lord.

Severus Snape found himself wrapping long, potions-stained fingers around Harry's wrist, keeping the boy close—holding onto him as one would do a lifeline. All the while, the boy's fingers continued to caress over the form of the Dark Mark, the snake within it undulating contentedly beneath his touch.

* * *

Harry paused at the door to his dormitory.

There were professors rifling through his things, none really seeming to care that they were invading his _privacy_. Draco stood off to the side, a pinched look around his eyes; from the throb of magic surrounding the blonde, it was obvious that he had been put under a spell—perhaps one that silenced him since there was no way that Draco would have allowed anyone to go through Harry's things without putting up a fuss.

"What are you doing, going through my personal belongings?" Harry asked, voice cold as he stepped forward and confronted Hagrid and Professor McGonagall. The half-giant jumped in surprise at hearing Harry's voice, and he gave the boy a sidelong glance before allowing his gaze to fall down to the ground. "Er… Professor Dumbledore went to us, and…." He trailed off, not knowing quite what to say before giving Professor McGonagall a pleading look. He couldn't forget that Harry had been the baby that he had rescued from the ruins at Godric's Hollow—no matter the fact that Harry had been Sorted into Slytherin.

Professor McGonagall sighed quietly and stood straight, lightly dusting her hands off. "A student came to the Headmaster and said that you had taken several of his things, and so the Headmaster sent us to check through your belongings for them."

Harry's fist shook briefly before he tucked his hand into his pocket to hide the trembling. "May I inquire as to who is making such accusations against me? And why I wasn't allowed to be questioned before my things were ransacked—as if I was already believed to be guilty without a word to my own defense?"

The Scottish witch blushed slightly at that, and Harry viciously hoped that she regretted following Dumbledore's orders without a second thought. "A Mr. Ronald Weasley was the one who made the accusation against you, Mr. Potter," Minerva McGonagall admitted, voice clipped with discomfort. "And the Headmaster bid us to go through your things because he was certain that Mr. Weasley was telling the truth."

Magic spiked at that statement, and those who felt it shifted uncomfortably.

"Ah," Harry murmured softly, eyes going lidded. "So because Mr. Weasley is a Gryffindor and I'm a Slytherin automatically ensures the fact that he is telling the truth—and that my privacy will then be utterly destroyed on his _word_ that I have something of his." An intelligent, all-knowing nod. "And since I'm automatically guilty, I take it that you have found these things that I have apparently taken from Mr. Weasley…?"

Hagrid glanced away from the boy, obviously shame-faced.

Once more, the magic within the room spiked dangerously.

Trying _so very hard_ to remain composed, Harry nodded again and made his way over to the desk so that Professor McGonagall and Hagrid could finish digging through his things. Idly, he took a piece of parchment and a quill from his school supplies and began to scribble off a note. Professor McGonagall watched him stiffly for a moment before finally venturing, "Mr. Potter, just _what_ are you doing?"

"Mmm?" Harry commented, glancing up. "I'm writing a letter to the Hogwarts Board of Governors so that I can begin to lodge a formal complaint. After all, blatant favoritism shouldn't be found in a Headmaster who is supposed to remain impartial over an entire student body. And having my privacy breached without even being allowed to defend myself just because another student makes an accusation against me…? What, then, will happen the next time that a student says something negative about me? Will my personal items be rifled through again?"

As Harry spoke, Professor McGonagall's blush continued to deepen as Harry continued to very meticulously humiliate her and the actions that she had been asked to take against him. When Harry fell silent so that he could return once more to his letter, the woman very stiffly, very formally, murmured, "I apologize, Mr. Potter. An inquiry should have been made before action was taken."

The boy glanced up at the witch's words, gaze catching on Professor McGonagall's. The woman nodded slightly in apology and gestured Hagrid to leave the room, following soon after him. However, just because he had received an apology didn't mean that Harry intended on _not_ sending the letter: Dumbledore had made the first move—probably looking for Dark books or other dangerous artifacts—and the green-eyed Slytherin would not roll over and submissively display his belly to the old wizard.

_No_.

Harry's ire had been raised.

Once the professors had left, the spell that had kept Draco silent dissipated and the blonde made his way over to his friend, settling himself down in a chair across from the other teen—careful of any gesture of rejection.

"We tried to stop them, said that it wasn't right," the Malfoy heir murmured quietly.

"I know," Harry said simply. He paused, however, and glanced up to meet hopeful gray eyes. A small quirk was offered up then, and the tension that Draco had been carrying in his shoulders for the past several months finally lifted. "Thank you for trying, though."

The boys were silent for a moment, and then it was the blonde who finally ventured, "…your books… Where are they? I didn't see either the oaf or McGonagall take them."

The Potter heir chuckled quietly, signing the letter with a flourish of his name. "No, they didn't take them. I keep all of the suspect books in a safe place that only I can reach. They're protected, and you have no need to worry about your family getting in trouble for giving them to me, Draco."

Draco finally relaxed at that, and the blonde reached out to lightly curl his fingers around the wrist that Professor Snape had earlier that evening. "Thank you," he whispered, knowing just how much trouble his father would have gotten into should the Ministry have discovered that the Malfoys were the ones who had gifted the Boy-Who-Lived with such dangerous reading material. The blonde Slytherin paused for a moment, swallowed audibly, and forcibly made himself look up to meet Harry's gaze. "And… I'm sorry."

Harry stared at Draco for several long moments, eyes quietly thoughtful; in the end, however, he extracted his wrist from the other's hold and gave a slight nod towards his friend. "I know. And I'm not yet ready to forgive you for your betrayal, but… it will happen."

The blonde Slytherin lightly inclined his head at that. It wasn't what he was exactly hoping for, but it was still more than he had feared. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the curve of Harry's shoulder. Too soon for complete forgiveness, but at least he knew now that he and his father were getting there.

* * *

The second time that Harry's things were raided, the boy watched the goings-on with a flat gaze that hid the true depths of his fury: he did not attempt to logic his way out of this new breach of privacy, mainly due to the fact that the Headmaster had intercepted his letter before it could have the chance to leave the grounds.

Watching as his things were manhandled by the behest of Dumbledore, Harry finally looked away to glance over to Draco. He smiled then, and Draco shivered at the expression within Harry's eyes—and the trepidation lengthened, deepened, burrowed further as the raven-haired teen made his way over to Draco.

"I was wondering if you would be willing to contact your father for me," he murmured, voice pitched so that the professors couldn't hear him. "Hedwig can no longer leave the school's grounds and I haven't yet figured out how to tweak the wards to allow her to come and go like she used to. So I'd like you to write a letter to your father, asking him for a favor…"

* * *

On the evening of the 15th of November, Lucius Malfoy made a visit to Hogwarts. He had been sent by the Ministry to bring the four Champions to Hogsmeade for a supper to celebrate the Tournament—and the fact that the First Task's allotted time was now half up.

The students had gone happily enough—except for Harry, who stared once more after the beginnings of a supper that once more was interrupted—and surrounded the elegant aristocrat as they made their way down the driveway to the gates of the school and out towards Hogsmeade. The students' quiet chattering and the soft tapping of Lucius Malfoy's walking stick upon the ground were the only sounds as the five meandered towards the wizarding village: no one was in any particular rush, and it showed in the relaxed postures and friendly conversation between the three main Champions.

Harry, however, stayed at a distance and followed after the three original Champions and the pureblood patriarch's figure, ignoring the flashes of bright silver that went his way every so often when Uncle Lucius glanced at him.

But he did not look at Harry very often.

And it was that lack of overt attention that allowed suspicion to be cast away from the pureblooded wizard when he and the main three Champions were questioned later on that night: the moment that the group left the boundaries of Hogwarts, there were cracks of Apparition. One, two, three, four, five, and six—one of the people who appeared out of nowhere sent a Stunner Diggory's way, another used the Blasting Hex to toss Lucius up in the air, spinning and landing heavily several dozen feet away.

"Harry!" the man screamed, eyes wide with fear for his adopted nephew as one of the masked Death Eaters wrapped the boy tightly in an embrace when confusion and chaos were roiling about and no one yet knew what was truly going on despite the fact that they were all under attack, and the Death Eater Side-Apparated himself and the Boy-Who-Lived _away_. "_No!_ _Harry!_"

He shot off a curse, aimed at the Death Eater's head, but it was too late. The green-eyed Slytherin and his captor disappeared from view with the resounding _crack!_ of an echoing gunshot.

* * *

Portkey or Apparation: Neither really had any appeal for Harry (nor did Flooing, as well), and it would have made him hard-pressed to decide on which mode of wizarding travel he disliked the most.

As the tight feeling of being squeezing and pulled through a tunnel finally abated and the teen landed on his arse, Harry hissed in irritation and decided that the answer to his ponderings was most definitely "all of them."

He noticed, then, that the whisperings and the muted conversations that had been a murmuring roar in the background slowly quieted and silence reigned supreme. Lashes lowering to veil the look in his eyes, Harry slowly glanced up and the sight of a room full of Death Eaters met his gaze.

They all surrounded a dark wooden throne that was placed at the back of a room—a stone hall, deep and warded with spell after spell, and Harry tilted his head to the side as his attention caught on the crimson eyes within the face of the frail golem, the creature bundled up in thick, dark robes.

A rictus parody of a smile stretched the golem's lips tight across its face, and Harry shivered slightly at the hungry expression that lingered within the other's gaze. And when it spoke, the boy was not at all surprised to recognize Voldemort's familiar, serpentine tones, "Ahhh… Harry, I _did_ warn you that we would soon be meeting. And I was correct, was I not?"

"You did, and you are," the teen admitted as he carefully pushed himself up to a standing position. He dusted off his robes, movements brisk and efficient, speaking all the while, "But I also mentioned, didn't I, that it would be on my own terms? And thanks to Uncle Lucius, it is."

The boy abruptly rolled then, dodging and diving across the floor as the familiar sight of his holly wand once more appeared in his hand. He pointed it, eyes aflame with dark intent and movements vicious in his rage, and the Death Eaters screamed and made to shield their Lord, others shooting as many curses at Harry as possible.

He managed to avoid many of them—but not all. _Excelsiosempra_ sent Harry flying high up into the air and the boy slammed into the ceiling. He heard the distinctive snap of bones breaking, but his aim remained true throughout the agony: "_Avada Kedavra!_"

The curse did not hit Voldemort.

Peter Pettigrew watched in abject terror, too afraid to move, as the green light made its way towards him: no way to deflect it, no way to survive it—Harry was, after all, the only one who had ever managed to do so. He screamed, horrified with the knowledge that he was about to die, knowledge that came to him as a matter of fact, not idle pondering, and he stepped back in a last-minute attempt to save himself. However, it wasn't enough: Harry would allow nothing less than Wormtail's death this day.

The sound of his lifeless body hitting the floor was the only thing that disturbed the silence of the chamber. Silence, ringing silence, and then—suddenly—a woman with wild, dark hair and eyes that reflected the twistedness of her soul stepped forward and screamed in fury at the teen who was still pinned to the wall.

"_You!_ How _dare_ you!"

Harry laughed in answer, head tilted back and basking in the sense of relief at finally having the traitor dead that washed over him, making him feel lighter than he had in half a year. The laughter changed to a wheezed cry of pain, however, as the woman shattered one of the bones in his legs, and Harry gritted his teeth to ensure that no other embarrassing sounds escaped him.

"Pettigrew's life was forfeit to me," he snapped, vision wavering at the agony that his body currently found itself in. "It was forfeit to me the moment he betrayed my parents and the moment his actions caused my godfather to die. His life was _mine_, and _I took it_."

"We heard lots of things about you, Potter, but never thought that you'd really be capable of an Unforgivable," the man who had taken him—straw blonde hair and dark brown eyes, pale skin and a too-pleased smile curling about his lips—said as he stepped forward. He canceled the spell that kept Harry captive, and the boy tumbled down to land roughly.

Stars filled his vision, and a tinny, whining sound drowned out every other noise as Harry gasped and fought to stay conscious. His fingernails dug into the stone beneath his body, using it as a way to anchor himself to the here-and-now, and it was only until he had a firm grasp on the present that the Slytherin looked up to meet the man's gaze.

"My tutor was very thorough and made sure to let me know that, when using the Unforgivables, you had to _mean_ it. I meant it: I wanted that tub of lard _dead_," Harry said, eyes intent and dark and filled with that stark, honest truth: he had wanted to kill.

The man stared at him for a moment or two before grinning widely, reaching across the space that separated the two of them to ruffle Harry's hair. "I like you, kid," he said, simply. "The name's Barty."

Grimacing at that, Harry carefully rolled over onto his back so that he could look at the assembled Death Eaters upside down. There was the man who had taken him—Barty, he supposed—who then walked over to stand next to a man with black hair and deep violet eyes, a man who currently had Voldemort's ugly golem carefully swaddled and held in his arms. The wild-eyed woman stood not far from them, and next to her stood two men who were obviously brothers, perhaps only a few years apart: one of the men had the most sensuous, cruel mouth that Harry had ever seen and the other a pair of doe eyes that must have broken many people before now—the expression of innocence, of kindness, that never faded even as he tortured them into insanity.

Another sibling duo: this one brother and sister, square and stocky, and the man gave a wheezing giggle as he leered down at the boy. An older man stood at the violet-eyed man's left, face long and pale and twisted with too many years of hate and bitterness. Idly, Harry couldn't help but wonder if his face would have looked exactly like that man's if he had spent the rest of his years at the Dursleys. But that was no matter: he was gone now, and he had managed to forge his own path.

And the last Death Eater—perhaps this was just the Inner Circle?—brutal-faced and cruel, with eyes that were so pale a shade of blue that they almost appeared transparent… they were pretty eyes, Harry supposed, if one enjoyed glacial chill.

The men and women stared down at Harry, and the boy stared back—hoping, silently, that his expression was nonplussed. Eventually, though, the staredown got rather tiring and the teen shifted his attention completely to the golem in the stranger's arms.

"I really hope that that's not what you look like when you finally manage to resurrect yourself," the Slytherin began conversationally, quirking an eyebrow at Voldemort and letting arrogance radiate off of himself in waves. It didn't particularly matter that he was injured, bleeding from too many places, and sprawled helplessly on the floor in front of Voldemort and his most loyal followers. The boy refused to be intimidated, and most would have mistaken the trembling in his hands for pain rather than fear. "If you end up coming back without a nose, I'm afraid that I'm just going to have to refer to you as 'Gollum' instead of 'Voldemort.' More fitting, I think."

The golem's mouth once more curved into a slow, contented smile, and the tiny, malformed hand reached up to point a wand at the boy. "_Stupefy_."

* * *

Harry found himself honestly surprised when he opened his eyes to silken bedsheets, velvet canopy hangings, and the fluffiest, softest pillows that his head had ever had the privilege of laying upon. He had expected, truthfully, to wake up to chains and dank stone, the sound of dripping water that formed a mildewed puddle in the corner of some long-forgotten cell.

This, though…

_This_, Harry supposed that he could get used to.

»I see that you have finally decided to awaken,« an amused voice spoke quietly from a chair next to the bed. In answer to that, Harry stirred slightly and turned his head to the side so that he might once more meet the crimson gaze of the Dark Lord.

»Perhaps if your minions had been a bit nicer, you wouldn't have had to wait so long for me to regain consciousness,« Harry answered, feeling the need to point out that it hadn't been his fault that he had been knocked unconscious—first roughed up by the Inner Circle Death Eaters and then by Voldemort's own _Stupefy_.

The teen attempted to sit up then, groaning quietly at the pain that immediately wracked through his body. Giving up _that_ venture as a lost cause, Harry slumped back against the welcoming pillows and allowed his eyes to close. He spoke, though, so that Voldemort wouldn't think that he had drifted off into sleep. »While I'm infinitely grateful that I didn't wake up in the dungeons, am I allowed to ask why?«

Voldemort chuckled. »I wished to enjoy the sight of you in my bed.«

Green eyes opened once more at that, and Harry turned his head to the side to give the Dark Lord a sardonic _Look_. »Pedophile,« he retorted, though his words did not hold all that much rancor or acid.

Instead of angering Voldemort, the accusation just seemed to entertain him. The golem tilted its head back and laughed, deep chuckles echoing in the confined space of the man's bedchambers. The sound was enough to make Harry shiver, remembering belatedly what it felt like to have that quiet laughter brushing against the shell of his ear. Casually, the boy rolled over onto his belly—making the movement appear as if he was doing so to make himself more comfortable and nothing more.

The predatory smile that the golem gave to him let Harry know that the Dark Lord had seen through his ruse. »Perhaps you may call me that,« the creature mused, crimson eyes going thoughtful. »But for beings such as you and I… ah, it isn't necessarily the age that intrigues us. It's the power that the other holds. And you, child… oh, how you intrigue me.«

Harry's lashes lowered, hooding dangerous Killing Curse-green eyes. »Bond or not, intrigue or not—nothing will ever happen between the two of us. You dominate others because it's in your nature to do so. I refuse to be amongst that number. You and Dumbledore: neither of you will ever break me to your will.«

If anything, the statement just made Voldemort's smile deepen. »And yet,« the Dark Lord began, waving a feeble, disfigured hand through the air. »The first chance you were given, you came running to me.«

The Slytherin laughed, burying his face against the pillows beneath his cheek to muffle the amused sound—though nothing hid the way that his shoulders shook in his amusement. Finally, when he was in better control of himself, the boy said, »Came running to you? I think not. I set this in motion so that we could meet and strike a bargain.«

There was no vocal answer, though Voldemort's hairless eyebrow quirked upwards.

Harry grinned then, the gesture predatory and hungry as he glanced at his friend-or-foe. Voldemort was Voldemort, his own entity, Harry supposed: he would decide later, when the time came, in what type of category to assign the Dark Lord. »Dumbledore has begun to put many things in motion in an attempt to harass and bully me back to his side, his way of thinking. He seems to believe that intimidation tactics will work—they won't—and I need to have his attention elsewhere so that I can finish my schooling at Hogwarts in peace. This is where you come in: I'll help you with your resurrection, bring you back to your full glory, but _you_ need to distract Dumbledore and keep him away from me until the time comes for me to leave Hogwarts.«

Tiny fingers lightly tapped against the malformed curve of Voldemort's golem's chin. »And why should I agree to this?« the Dark Lord asked, watching Harry slyly from the corner of his gaze.

The boy snorted. »Guaranteed nose, finally getting a proper body, and having the chance to annoy the hell out of Dumbledore—not only with my permission, but with my full-hearted blessing? This should be considered a complete win-win situation for you.«

The _tap-tap-tapping_ paused for a moment, and Voldemort slowly asked: »And what do you intend to do after you graduate Hogwarts?« the man murmured, crimson eyes glowing with intent and hunger.

It made Harry uncomfortable—the perusal, the attention given to him—and the boy's fingers curled over the edge of a pillowcase. »I haven't yet decided,« the Slytherin hedged in an attempt to buy himself more time. He knew, however, that he was already pulling at straws and it wouldn't be possible to hold the Dark Lord off for forever.

Voldemort's smile curled and deepened and turned sinister. »Agree to stay with me over the winter holidays, and I shall accept your piss-poor excuse—for now—and fully participate in this bargain of yours.«

The Slytherin was silent for long moments, lashes veiling his gaze as he mulled over the bargain and the counter-bargain that Voldemort had proposed. Finally, though, as he felt exhaustion tugging at him, the boy nodded and returned to pillowing his cheek on the silken sheets beneath his body. »Your terms are acceptable. Now go away so that I can heal and gather the strength needed to fix that pathetic husk you're currently inhabiting.«

Though the Dark Lord seemed to accept the fact that Harry would refuse to be cowed by him, there were still some lines that the wizard refused to allow the boy to cross. He hissed angrily, and the lightning bolt scar burned fiercely before dulling to a muted throb. »Be careful of your tongue, child. Your small defiances won't always be acceptable. I can and do have the power to punish you, and do not think that I shall refrain from doing so.«

Harry snorted and closed his eyes so that he might sleep. »Bite me.«

»Oh, I _fully_ intend on it.«

* * *

_Author's Note:_ Many thanks to VerboseVolition, who has willingly agreed to be my sounding board and zeekie1 (yay for awesome HP fanfiction-reading best friends) as a nitpicky beta reader starting next chapter~ XD And for those who are curious about the phrases "Wizard Lightning Battle" and "Just kill him with your awesome," I would suggest you go to YouTube and search for "Assassin's Creed" and "Harry Potter"—and add in "literal" afterwards (then click on the videos uploaded by Tobuscus). ;)


	17. Chapter 17

_Author's Note:_ ….I have over five hundred reviews. o.o;;; Honestly, I never expected that to happen, so _thank you_, so _very much_, for taking the time to leave me your thoughts, your feedback, your critique, and your comments on _Paradise Lost_. I never expected that any of my stories would become as popular as they apparently seem to be, and I'm incredibly touched to have such wonderful people supporting my writing and actually looking forward to each update. Thank you, thank you, thank you: it's you guys that make me look forward to updating and it's you guys that also _keep_ me updating. _Thank you_.

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

What wonders a nap could have on a person's recuperation.

Harry awoke the second time, much more refreshed and relaxed, stretching out cautiously as he tested his body for the broken bones that he had last remembered receiving at the hands of the gathered Death Eaters.

"Unfortunately for you," began an all-too familiar voice and Harry glanced over to meet the quiet silver of Lucius Malfoy's gaze, "the bones in your leg were too shattered to mend properly. We had to Vanish them and give you Skele-Gro while you were sleeping instead. Everything else, however, was quickly mended. May I ask, though, just _what_ you said that managed to enrage a roomful of Death Eaters immediately after your appearance?"

The boy laughed softly at that and pushed up so that he was sitting, carefully favoring his right leg. "I didn't really say anything, actually—mostly just an Avada Kedavra. Funny how overprotective the lot are of the snakey bastard, especially if they had just taken the time to _look_ at where my wand was pointed. Wasn't anywhere near Voldemort."

Lucius shrugged slightly, turning just enough to offer Harry a tray of food so that the boy could have the chance to eat. "It was your fault for pulling your wand out so quickly in the first place," the aristocrat scolded lightly, though his silver gaze was hard with disapproval.

Harry shrugged. "Doesn't matter. It was worth it. Killed Pettigrew—finally."

Knowing that it was no use scolding Harry now that he had achieved what he wanted, Lucius just sighed and shook his head before reaching out to gently cup the boy's face between his hands: lifting Harry's head, he inspected the boy with a frank gaze, eyes narrowed as he took in the exhaustion that still remained in the back of his adopted nephew's eyes.

"When I agreed to your favor, I did not do so with the end result of you being harmed," he scolded Harry, voice quiet but forceful. "Narcissa is most displeased with you. I do believe that she fully intends on sending you a book on diplomacy."

Harry laughed at that, pulling out of Lucius' hold so that he could quickly finish the food that the patriarch had brought for him. In between bites (and making sure that there was no food in his mouth as he spoke), the boy asked, "How did the interrogation go?"

The blonde pureblood smirked. "As well as can be imagined. "The other Champions—or, well, the ones who were still conscious—remembered my yelling after you when you were taken and the way that I had shot curses at the fleeing Death Eaters. Dumbledore is suspicious of me; but, then again, that changes nothing from the norm. Everyone else believes that I had nothing to do with your kidnapping."

"Well, you _are_ a rather excellent actor," Harry murmured demurely as he remembered reading some of the trial records from when his uncle had been accused of being a Death Eater. In response, the older man just raised a pale brow.

"I shall refrain from the various connotations and interpretation in which that that can be taken and instead take that as a compliment," the man finally said, shrugging slightly before bracing his hands on the top of his cane. "How are you feeling, though? And speak the truth."

The fourteen year-old sighed quietly. "A little sore, truthfully. Not as tired as I was before—thankfully enough, since I want to get the ritual I came here for done and over with as soon as possible. And… curious, I suppose. Who are all of the Death Eaters?"

Lucius looked surprised at Harry's question. "You truly wish to know?"

The boy's answering glance was full of mellow acid, idly amused though it also was. "Well, I'm asking, aren't I? And when have you known me to ask a question that I truly didn't want the answer to?"

The answer, of course, was "never." And Lucius knew that it was so.

"The woman with the dark hair, the one who said the curse that shattered your leg: that is Bellatrix Lestrange, née Black—Narcissa's sister. There were probably two men who looked like brothers near her?" Harry nodded and Lucius continued. "The elder one is Rodolphus and Bellatrix's husband; the younger is Rabastan. The brother and sister pair are Alecto—the sister—and Amycus—the brother—Carrow. Neither is seen far from the other and, most of the time, are referred to as 'The Carrows.' Fenrir Greyback is one of the Inner Circle Death Eaters, though the Dark Lord oftentimes has him running errands; now is such a time. If I remember correctly, he's currently courting the werewolf clans in Norway. But, back to the Death Eaters who are currently in attendance to the Dark Lord: The man with the pale blue eyes is Yaxley, the older man is Antonin Dolohov. And I heard that you already met Barty Crouch Jr."

Harry hummed in agreement, but paused and glanced sidelong at his "uncle." He remained silent for several moments, wondering at the reason why one of the men had been overlooked (perhaps Lucius had simply forgotten? but, no, the pureblood was scarily good at remembering names and faces) but then eventually asked, "And the man with the dark hair and violet eyes?"

Lucius inhaled sharply at the description. "You saw him? He was there?"

The boy blinked and gave Lucius a Look that said without words, 'Well, _duh_. Of _course _he was there—why else would I be asking you this otherwise?' However, Lucius' expression made the attitude fall away soon enough, and Harry reached out to curl his fingers over the older man's forearm. "…who is he?"

"The Dark Lord's main torturer. The Order of the Phoenix and the Ministry's Aurors all believe that he died years ago—but he survived, no one knows how—and then he went to Albania to look for the Dark Lord. His name is Evan Rosier, and he's one of the main reasons why the Dark Lord was able to anchor himself in a body, despite the fact that it's a golem."

Drumming his fingers over the velvet of Lucius' coat, Harry eventually glanced sidelong at the older man, offering up one of the silent observations that he had noted as he had attempted to stare down the group while broken and sprawled out on the floor of Voldemort's throne room. "…the other Death Eaters mostly stayed away from Barty and Rosier. Dolohov was the one who got closest, but even he had to have been at least two feet away. Maybe more."

Gently, Lucius clasped Harry's chin between his fingers. "Never forget this: out of all of the Death Eaters that you will ever come across, Rosier and Crouch will always, _always _be the most dangerous."

"Why thank you, Lucius," spoke a voice that was husky and quiet, muted—just barely above a whisper. "I never knew that you had such a high opinion of me." The voice chuckled and, with his chin still held in his uncle's frozen grip, Harry shifted his gaze to meet the newcomer's: emerald met amethyst, and Evan Rosier slowly smiled at seeing the lack of fear in the boy's eyes.

He wondered, then, just what it would take to break this Dark child.

However, his thoughts were flying away from him, and the man caught them once more and brought them close before continuing, "The Dark Lord knows that Potter is awake. He inquires as to whether or not the boy will be able to keep his end of the bargain."

Harry snorted and carefully made his way off of the bed, using the arm that Lucius offered to him to help steady himself. "Oh, sure," the teen snarked quietly, pitching his voice so that only the blonde could hear him. "Sic your Death Eaters on me when I finally show up in your home, toss me around a bit, breaking me a bit, and then you're all, 'Please, sir! I'd like some more!' when you learn that I'm up and ready and recharged. Some hospitality."

Lucius chuckled quietly and kept a hand braced just beneath his nephew's elbow. "Then perhaps, next time, you should state a bargain in clearer terms. You know as well as I that the Dark Lord is a Slytherin and will thus take advantage of any loopholes you may leave."

The teen snorted once more at his uncle's words—knowing, truthfully, that the man was right. And knowing, as well, that pain was no excuse to offer up a sloppy bargain: it was Harry's own fault that he was currently out of bed and stumbling after Evan Rosier to wherever Voldemort made his main lair.

Surprisingly, Rosier just led Harry and Lucius to the throne room where Harry had been taken to originally. The boy quirked an eyebrow at that, wondering if Voldemort's megalomania ran so deep that he needed his audience surrounding him and looking to him at all times.

Shaking his head to dispel his thoughts, the teen plucked the bag hanging at Lucius' waist, the bag that he knew that the Malfoy patriarch had brought for him because Draco had asked him to.

"Uncle Lucius stays," he began, voice abrupt as it cut through the various Death Eater conversations. Harry dug through the bag that he had taken from his uncle, lips softly pursed though his mouth curled into a pleased smile as he found the stick of crimson chalk that he had been looking for. "Voldemort obviously stays. I stay. Everyone else, please vacate the premises. Shoo~"

One of the Lestrange brothers—probably Rabastan since he looked to be the younger of the two—stepped forward with an angry hiss, looking so much like his sister-in-law as he did so. "You have no right to tell us what to do—you have no power here, and we have no guarantee that what you do is for our Lord's good."

Harry raised an elegant brow at the pureblooded Death Eater before also turning his attention to the others. "Your Lord wants me to do the ritual that will bring him back to power. But in order to do the ritual, I have to be comfortable. I don't trust any of you, so I'm not comfortable. Which means that I can't do the ritual. Besides, you're also taking up precious ritual-doing space."

The last was, surprisingly, true.

The Carrows were preparing to lift their wands to hex Harry for his flippancy, but Voldemort's raspy voice paused them all mid-motion, the Death Eaters freezing immediately at the sudden spike in pain within their Dark Marks. "Leave us…" the Dark Lord hissed quietly, hellfire eyes intent as he looked from gaze to gaze of his most loyal followers.

One could tell that they were not happy with the dismissal: but they all still bowed as one and turned to leave. It went without saying, however, that Harry received many dirty looks—all of which he ignored, having grown used to the spiteful expressions that graced the faces of many of his schoolmates.

When the three men were finally alone, Harry pointed at Lucius. "You will remain there, at all times. No matter what you see or what you hear, you will remain exactly there," the boy ordered with a hard, flinty gaze. "If you disobey this order from me, I will never allow you to finish making amends for your original betrayal."

The threat alone was more than enough to make Lucius realize that whatever Harry had in mind… wouldn't be good. Not at all. "Just what are you intending on doing?" he asked, hoping that his voice managed to remain blasé and comfortably nonchalant.

The Look that Harry gave to him let him know that he failed spectacularly.

The raven-haired Slytherin then proceeded to ignore both the Dark Lord and his uncle, getting on hands and knees to draw a large circle with his chalk. The men watched him for several moments, both silent, until Voldemort's curiosity finally got the better of him and the man asked, "Just what are you doing?"

"Preparing to strike a bargain," Harry said absently, finally answering both older men's question, as he squatted on his haunches, glancing at the circle to ensure that it was symmetrical. Any smallest deviation from perfection would have meant that he was royally screwed.

Things looked fine, however, and so the boy nodded to himself and began to write a series of runes on the ground just in front of his body. While he hadn't yet found the runes required to bring life back from the dead, as Odin was reported to be able to do, he had still found plenty of other uses for the ancient language—some of those uses which would have the Hogwarts professors' heads of hair turning stark white.

First went Inguz, diamond-shaped and effortlessly drawn: the rune of growth, the transformation of power—the male mysteries, the earth gods, of process and of space. Harry pricked his finger with the athame that had been in the bag, tracing over the chalk with his own blood.

After Inguz went Perthro, a graceful mix of vertical and cusps, all connected intimately to form the Lot-Cup: Fate herself, the unknown. Oddly enough, this was Harry's favorite rune and he took particular care to draw it out, fingers lovingly clasped around the piece of chalk. When he finished with it, the boy carefully leaned forward and kissed it, making sure not to smudge the symbol.

Next went Nauthiz, a rune with a vertical line with another line slashed diagonally through it. This rune spoke of necessity, the necessity of growth—this particular growth, for Voldemort, for this ritual—but it was also the rune for constraint. Considering who it was that Harry was planning on summoning up, "restraint" was going to be very much needed. This rune was traced over with his blood three times, the Slytherin not stopping with his actions until the letter gleamed, shining in the lights from the crimson liquid that coated it.

Then went Gebo, a simple "x." The symbol for gift, for fair exchange, for sacrifice—also for exchanged powers and the dissolution of barriers through the power of Harry's gifting. A simply drawn out rune, but one that tipped the scales within the ritual and ensured that it remained even, remained equal. He chuckled at that rune, knowing just how much the other hated it.

Finally went Eihwaz, the rune that represented the yew—ironic in that Harry needed this rune and that the man who he was doing this ritual for had a wand that was made from the same wood type: death mysteries, the timeless, the axis of upper-lower-Middangeard. Once this rune was complete, Harry slashed his palm and pressed it over the faintly glowing rune, quirking a small smile down at it as power began to pulse through the throne room. Quietly:

"_Come_."

The magical energy began to throb in time with Harry's heartbeat—not surprising since the green-eyed teen had deliberately linked everything to it. Lucius, staring wide-eyed and breathless, managed to keep his end of the bargain: he stayed where he was due to the knowledge, ingrained and instinctual, that Harry had meant his warning, but… the tenseness within his body betrayed the fact that he wanted nothing more than to run across the small expanse separating him from Harry and to take the boy away. Far, far away.

_How_ did he know of this ritual? It wasn't even mentioned in any of the books he and Draco had given to the boy! This was a piece of magic that even grown wizards were too afraid to try! _How_ had Harry discovered this?

Smoke, black as pitch, black as ebony, began to form in the middle of the circle: growing thicker, darker as seconds passed and as Harry stared expectantly into the summoning space with a small, pleased smile upon his face. Eventually, after several long minutes, the smoke solidified into the form of an elegant man: pale skin, mahogany eyes that were upturned with easy, amused cruelty, and hair blacker than sin that framed an aristocratic face. The creature stared at Harry, gaze assessing, and finally inclined his head in mocking reverence. "Young Master," the creature murmured.*

"Hello again," Harry answered with an entertained grin, slowly rocking back and forth on his heels. Hearing the greeting, though, Lucius Malfoy choked on air. _Again_? The boy had done this ritual before? _This wasn't the first time?_

The creature glanced over at the blonde pureblooded wizard and smirked in amusement before returning his attention to the boy crouched on the floor before him. "Young Master, the last that we met, I do believe that I warned you of the dangers of summoning me unless it was absolutely necessary."

Harry snorted. "I haven't forgotten," the boy promised. "But this _is_ necessary. I need an added power boost in order to fulfill a bargain that I made. And not much power, either, before you decide to start complaining." The other quirked an eyebrow at Harry's words, as if inquiring as to the reason, and the boy just shrugged and pointed rudely at Voldemort.

The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed dangerously, especially when the summoned creature lazily looked the fallen wizard up and down, expression amused as he idly tap-tap-tapped one booted heel against the floor. "Ah," the creature began, tone conversational. "When I believed that I finally knew just how foolish humans truly are, I am once again surprised. You very much are a surprising, inventive species."

Voldemort hissed angrily at the being's audacity, to which the creature just smirked and turned his attention back to Harry. The boy raised his eyebrows in inquiry at the other's musing expression, and eventually ventured, "Will you help me with my request?"

The being in the summoning circle lightly tapped its slightly curved, cruel lips with one long, talon-like black fingernail. Finally, it shrugged in agreement. "I suppose. And yes, before you ask, Young Master: Our usual exchange will suffice."

"Excellent." Harry nodded at that and drew the athame along the life line on his palm, pushing up to his feet as he made his way towards the edge of the circle. He did not cross it, but his bleeding hand did cross the barrier. The creature smirked and, instead of evaporating the blood as it usually did, instead fell to its knees and began to lick the blood away with long, sensuous strokes of its tongue.

Harry was too gobsmacked to notice the sudden spike of magic within the room.

"_Wha_…?" the teen muttered, cheeks turning bright red as the creature's lips parted to draw one of his fingers into the warm slickness of its mouth. If anything, the spike of magic grew stronger still, and Lucius glanced worriedly over at his Lord: the Dark Lord who was watching the creature's antics through narrowed, fury-ridden eyes. Thankfully, for all assembled in the throne room, it didn't take long for Harry to get over his shock and surprise. "Enough," he snapped, pulling his now cleaned hand away from the creature.

It chuckled at the command, wiping away the last remnants of blood that covered its full mouth. "As you wish, Young Master," it murmured, pleased at the fact that it not only got its part of the exchange but had also been able to bait a Dark Lord in playing with what the man believed was _his_. Dark Lords were such easily riled, jealous beings: _oh_, and _how_ it had been so easy to taunt. Smiling, the creature bowed slightly before murmuring as it faded away, "You fulfilled your part of the exchange. Now here is mine."

Power flooded Harry's body, and the teen shivered at its sweet, sweet taste. So delicious, the feeling that he could do anything—but Harry knew better than to let that feeling take control. He was still only human and power wasn't everything: power could _not_ accomplish everything that he wanted, and he if had started to believe that it _would_… it was very likely that he would end up like the Dark Lord. That was _not_ acceptable.

Still, though, the temptation to bask in the power that flowed through his veins, as temporary as that power was, was a temptation that Harry didn't fight strongly against. His eyes closed and he breathed deeply, savoring the feeling and committing it to memory.

"Harry," Lucius began, tone of voice dangerous and terse as the teen began to make his way around the summoning circle to head towards the golem that Voldemort currently inhabited. "Would you care to tell me how you came across the ritual for the Greater Summoning of Tïrat?"

Harry glanced sidelong at his uncle. "…my tutor told me how to do the ritual. But there's no need to worry. This is only the third time that I've done it." At the admittance, Lucius once more choked on air, and the aristocrat tried to think of how to explain to his darling wife that her nephew not only was actively practicing Dark Arts, but was also now dabbling in the _Black_ Arts. The fact that Harry had known of the Greater Summoning of Tïrat for a while and had already performed it several times was terrifying—especially since the boy was being so blasé about it.

This child was truly, truly _Dark_, and Harry was obviously so comfortable in it, even to the point of brushing off the fact that he had just summoned a Dark spirit to help him, an activity that even a trained Dark Lord would be leery of.

The terrifying part was that Voldemort was looking at the child appraisingly.

Harry, being Harry, ignored all of the speculative looks that both Lucius and the Dark Lord were sending him, disregarding them as unimportant as he allowed his bright verdant eyes to unfocus slightly, analyzing the Dark Lord's magical core and how it interacted with the golem that his spirit was inhabiting.

The tethers between body and spirit were incredibly fragile, and the complexity fo the enchantments needed for a complete, fully functional golem were lacking: severely so, and Harry felt a moment of contempt for whoever it was that had first created Voldemort's new body. It was clearly obvious that the person was a wizard (or witch, though the magic tasted of a masculine nature) of mediocrity, and Harry could do nothing but despise them for their plainness, their patheticness.

Scowling in annoyance, the teen's brows furrowed as he allowed his fingers to trail along one of the structural limbs, the foundation, of Voldemort's golem. "Pettigrew was the one who created this body, wasn't he?" the green-eyed Slytherin asked, obviously in a bad mood from the poor workmanship. The Dark Lord didn't bother replying to his inquiry, however; how was a response needful when Harry had guessed correctly on his first try?

If anything, the confirmation that came in the silence put the boy in a fouler mood. The dead wizard was truly nothing more than a waste of magical potential—and just for the offense that he gave towards the blessing that Harry appreciated each and every day… the young Dark Lord couldn't help but be glad that the wizard was now dead—and dead by his own hand.

Eventually, however, the teen sighed and shifted his gaze to look at Voldemort. "This will be painful," the child admitted with a one-shouldered shrug. "Unfortunately, the work that I currently have to deal with is exceptionally shoddy. Disgustingly so, actually. It'll be easier to work from scratch and… well."

Voldemort sighed and waved the tiny stub of his hand dismissively. "Do what you need."

The Slytherin's smile turned wolfish at that, and the Dark Lord belatedly wondered if Harry would take that as permission to cause him as much pain as possible in revenge for killing the boy's parents—though, granted, he probably would deserve it but that didn't necessarily mean that he _enjoyed_ pain (his own, since other people's pain was another matter entirely)—

But then his entire world was suddenly filled with it.

He screamed out his horror and his rage, lumpy head tilted back so that he could roar his suffering aloud. The Inner Circle immediately burst in on the first shriek, only to be met with the sight of Harry sitting before the Dark Lord's throne, ignoring the suffering that he was giving to the man, and instead staring in concentration at a web that had materialized before him.

This was the first time that any of them had heard the Dark Lord in pain, and they were shaken: but not idle. As one, many of them raised their wands to point at the boy, but Lucius stepped forward. "Put your wands _down_," he hissed angrily. "The boy warned the Dark Lord that there would be agony since he essentially has to start over, and our Lord gave his permission. Now _stand back_ and watch what the child is capable of."

Much as he ignored Voldemort, Harry comfortably ignored the Death Eaters—though he had felt the wands trained upon him, he had decided to just let Lucius deal with it since he was already immersed in the complex problem before him: the golem's structure, interconnected and layered where it shouldn't be, and pathetically simple where it should not be.

The Slytherin pursed his lips in a moue of disgust and began plucking at the strings of the web, changing things, building new strands when it was needed—fixing the mistakes that had led to the golem looking as it was. In the corner of his eye, he could sense movement and Harry knew that Voldemort's pitiable excuse for a body was changing. And with _Harry_ in charge, it was obviously for the _better_.

Changing things, however, would not be enough and Harry knew it: halfway through his spellplay, he began to add in his own magic—the reason why he needed the boost from the spirit, otherwise Harry would have knocked himself unconscious by the end of his work. And though he _would_ have finished the changes and fixed the past mistakes, Harry was not willing to let it be at the cost of magical exhaustion and the following unconsciousness, not when it left him vulnerable once more around the pack of hyenas that called themselves Death Eaters.

He spared a moment of disgust for the men and women behind him—always seeming to think first with their wands and not their brains; no wonder Voldemort was on the losing side between himself and Dumbledore—and slowly began to play something akin to Cat's Cradle with the web, tangling strands, weaving them together, layering and complicating the foundation until it would be nearly impossible to unravel everything.

* * *

In total, it took three hours to fulfill his end of their bargain.

When the last strand was tucked away once more into its foundation, Harry breathed a soft sigh and made to stand. His legs were tingling, shaky—slightly light-headed and weak, just like how he felt at the Dursleys when they had sent him into the cupboard for several days without food.

Lucius came up then, gently steadying the boy as he carefully slipped an arm around Harry's waist. The Slytherin sighed softly at that, leaning back into his pseudo uncle's embrace, and wondered idly if this was what it felt like to have a family. He knew that the only reason why the aristocrat had first been kind to him was for political gain, but… perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Harry hoped that it was more by now. He wouldn't hold his breath, but he still hoped.

Shaking himself from his melancholic thoughts, Harry finally turned his attention to the Dark Lord. And his eyes widened. _Damn, I do good work_, the boy thought as a pleased smirk tugged at the corner of his full mouth.

The Dark Lord was tall, almost impossibly so, but it no longer looked unnatural or disformed: his muscle mass and his build now looked proportional to his body; there was muscle, solid strength, beneath the skin now, and forearms with a light dusting of dark hair made their way down to wrists with prominent wristbones, and ended with hands that were breathtakingly elegant—the type of hands that Lucius Malfoy should have had, but didn't.

Dark hair with a slight curl (with one stubborn strand falling over onto the Dark Lord's forehead, which was then brushed away in a familiar gesture), cheekbones that were etched and strong and _gorgeous _and absolutely to die for, and a mouth that easily put Rodolphus to shame. Oh, yes: and there was a nose (a very _fine_ one, Harry thought, though it wasn't very difficult to be an improvement over having _no_ nose at all).

"My Lord…" Alecto and Bellatrix breathed, eyes wide and dark and swimming with desire. Harry glanced away, disgusted with their shallowness, and lightly squeezed Lucius to signal to the blonde patriarch that he wished to leave the throne room now.

"Harry," Voldemort murmured, pausing his and Lucius' slow but steady walk. The boy glanced over his shoulder and quirked an eyebrow in inquiry, surprised that the Dark Lord was even paying attention to him now that he had his men and women reverently kissing the hems of his robes. "Will you not come and claim your reward?"

The man wasn't subtle at all and Harry could easily see where this was going. He snorted. "What's there to reward? This wasn't done as a favor or as an act of servitude. This was a bargain between us: I filled my end of it, and now you must fulfill yours."

The Dark Lord's eyes flared with fury at being denied what he wanted and with a quiet hiss, murmured, »You cannot always run from me.«

Harry laughed softly at that, which just sparked the rage to climb that much higher. »I have no intention of doing so. But I am also not one of your minions for you to reward or punish at your leisure. I am my own person, an independent entity—I do suggest you remember that.«

»You are _mine_, child.«

The look that Harry gave to Voldemort at those words was incredibly pitying, and Lucius had to look away. »No, I'm not. I'm really, really not.«

Voldemort's eyes practically glowed with the fact that he had been denied, so easily too, one of the things that he wanted so desperately at his side, kneeling before him—at his feet. But those desires were easily seen in the Dark Lord's eyes, and Harry just turned away from them, refusing to acknowledge their presence.

"Take me to one of the spare rooms," he murmured to Lucius as he and the older man walked out of the throne room unscathed—though the look in Voldemort's eyes promised retribution. The boy, however, refused to remain intimidated. "Then, after I've rested for an hour or two, I think that it's time to head back to Hogwarts."

The look that Lucius gave to Harry in return was dubious and borderline skeptical. "…I sincerely doubt that he will let you leave the premises that easily, Harry. Especially not after the defiance that you showed to him just now."

Harry smirked. "We'll see."

* * *

* Sebastian Michaelis; _Kuroshitsuji_ by Yana Toboso  
I know that I have some people who are fellow fans of the manga (or anime or musical) have also decided to pick up reading _PL_, and so I just wanted to do a collective bro-fist for you all. ;) Was sooo hard, fyi, to write "Young Master" instead of my usual "bocchan." "Bocchan" is much, _much_ more cuter… :(

Randomly! *puts on pimp hat and gets pimp cane* If you haven't done so already, go and read _Wand Cores_ by Lydia-kitten. I stayed up all night into mid-morning to read it, and I had no regrets. Totally exhausted—but no regrets.


	18. Chapter 18

_Author's Note:_ When not flailing happily at me over Sebastian's cameo, a fair amount of you have been asking for more Voldemort and Harry interaction. Needless to say, for those of you who have asked that of me… this chapter will please you~ Or… well, I hope, anyway. XD;;;;

For those who aren't looking forward to it… erm. How about them Chudley Cannons…?

*walks off, whistling innocently*

* * *

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

Harry sat in a chair by the window in the room that Lucius had taken him to, body shifted just enough to the side to rest his temple against the cool pane of the glass as he watched the sky bleed crimson as the sun slowly dipped towards the horizon. He sipped absently at a cup of tea that he knew was laced with a Restorative Draught, lulling easily in the comfortable warmth that the potion gave to him: tired, but not exhausted, after performing the necessary changes to Voldemort's golem to fulfill his end of the bargain.

But his body, too, still ached with residual pain from his first fight with the Death Eaters.

Verdigris eyes went idly hooded as he finished up his latest cup before reaching forward to refill it, breathing in the soothing scents of peppermint and cinnamon—the latter from the actual potion.

It was as the boy was tracing, idly, the rim of the teacup that the door to the bedroom opened. Using the window pane as a pseudo mirror, Harry quirked a small smile as he saw who it was that had come to pay him a visit—though the magical aura of the man would have given him away, even without the muted crimson gaze that Harry looked at.

Neither said a word: Voldemort expecting Harry, in his youthfulness, to be the first to break the silence. And Harry? Harry knew better and remained silent, waiting to see what it was that brought the Dark Lord visiting.

The older man's patience eventually wore thin, however, for Voldemort—Harry knew—was not used to being denied that which he wanted. Did not enjoy, either, when his expectations did not come to fruition.

Listening as the Dark Lord made his way further into the bedroom, Harry sipped absently as he continued to watch the sun set, watching the other man's progress through the window pane's reflection. Eventually, however, Voldemort stopped across from where Harry was comfortably sitting and eased down to settle himself in the chair opposite the boy.

"Tell me, child," the Dark Lord began, tone half musing. "How were you able to fix this body—so easily, as well—when not even my faithful Death Eaters could accomplish such a feat?"

It was only then, when it was Voldemort who finally settled their silent bit for dominance in the conversation, that Harry finally turned and gave the handsome man his full attention. However, this conversation was also going to be highly personal—and so Harry switched to Parseltongue so that they might not be overheard by the others. »The reason why I was able to fix your previous body was because I was capable of seeing the threads that formed the web, the web that was the foundation of the golem's form.«

Voldemort's eyes widened slightly before narrowing thoughtfully as he considered this tidbit of information. »You can see magic?«

"Mmm," Harry hummed in agreement before giving a one-shouldered shrug, back to idly sipping at his cooling cup of tea-and-potion. »I have been for several years now. I don't know how and I don't know why, but something changed within my magical center as my spell repertoire grew and that was the result.«

The Dark Lord leaned back against his chair, propping his elbows up on the armrests as his fingers elegantly steepled. »It seems as if you are capable of practicing one of the more obscure branches of magic,« he mused aloud.

Harry chuckled softly, placing the teacup down and Vanishing it and the pot. »My tutor thought the same, and after the research that I've done in the subject, I would have to agree.«

»And what research is it that you have done?« Voldemort asked, tone slightly amused as he watched Harry from beneath his lashes, gaze dangerously hooding as thoughts flew through his mind.

The verdant-eyed teen smirked slightly before finally looking away from Britain's current Dark Lord. »I have found several books in the Restricted Section that indicate that what we are taught at Hogwarts is just the mainstream, most basic understanding of magic,« he murmured quietly. »The term 'witch' and 'wizard' is applied to a person capable of magic—but only that. I had always thought it strange, though, that Dumbledore had so many titles. Chief Warlock and Grand Sorcerer being two such titles. And so I started wondering and investigating, looking through books to see what those titles actually _meant_.«

»And what is it that you found?« Voldemort asked, lightly tapping his full mouth.

Harry's smirk deepened, and his answer was more than just a little evasive. »Ah, but I'm sure that you already know. So what's the point in reiterating, restating, theories that you're already familiar with.«

The Dark Lord's reply came unexpectedly: he reached across the space separating the both of them, clasping Harry's chin between long, graceful fingers, and jerked the boy's head so that he was forced to meet Voldemort's gaze. His hold was violent enough to leave behind bruises. »_Tell me_. What are you capable of?«

A dark, particularly vicious chuckle came as other wizard's answer. »Sorcerer, warlock, necromancer, magus and archmagus, magician, enchanter, Elementalist, Rune Master, Ward Master, ritualist… so many branches of magic, so many obscure abilities that Hogwarts doesn't teach anymore…«

Voldemort shifted his hold to wrap his fingers around Harry's throat, slamming the boy bodily against the wall next to the window. »I'm not playing games, child.«

The Slytherin teen gasped for breath and struggled against the Dark Lord's hold, vision going fuzzy as his fingernails dug viciously into the tender skin of the man's hands and wrists. »I don't have to tell you!« Harry snarled. »There's no need for you to know and what I'm capable of is something that's _private_! So sod off!«

While normally entertained with their verbal sparring and pleased with the fact that Harry wasn't at all submissive—if he had been, it would have been pathetic, especially with the boy's proclamations of what he intended on becoming—_now_, however, was not a time when Voldemort felt appreciative. His grasp tightened, and he began to methodically strangle the teen. »Tell me,« the Dark Lord ordered, voice as flat as his gaze. »Or I will Mark you right now.«

The thought of being given the Dark Mark—

It terrified Harry, knowing that he would always be subservient to this man, would always be under his dominion. The knowledge that he would no longer be independent, would become as much Voldemort's pawn as he had been Dumbledore's, at this dangerous man's mercy—the way that he had been the Dursleys and still was with the Headmaster…

Harry had been under the rule of too many people in his short life.

»_Fuck you_,« the green-eyed teen snarled as venomously as possible. And because he could feel-see-taste the way that Voldemort's magic was gathering, preparing itself not only for Harry to lash out magically, but to also put the Dark Mark upon his arm—the Slytherin instead showed his true colors and fought underhandedly.

Instead of letting his magic explode—not that the option wasn't tempting—Harry brought his knee up and had the bony limb connect solidly with Voldemort's groin. The man gasped in sudden, shooting pain and doubled-over, which then gave Harry the chance to wiggle out from the Dark Lord's sudden slack hold to run towards a corner that would be easily defended.

The next time that Voldemort glanced at Harry, the man's crimson gaze was cold in his rage, and frost began to slowly pattern itself on the floor, the walls, and the ceiling as Harry's breath fogged in the air.

»I should kill you for that,« the dark-eyed man hissed, voice deathly quiet in the silence that stretched between the both of them. Harry shivered at the tone, at the look in Voldemort's eyes, and he knew then that he had pushed too far—anything that happened from this time on would be in deadly earnest.

Perhaps he might even die.

»Then you shouldn't have threatened to Mark me,« Harry hissed back, settling into a defensive position that would allow for the greatest range of motion, body slightly tense enough to ensure that he would be prepared for Voldemort's first hex, but not tight enough to slow his reactions.

The beautiful man chuckled lowly, and the temperature within the bedroom continued to drop. »In the end, it doesn't matter, child. You are _mine_ and you shall carry my Mark before Christmas holidays are done. I will allow for nothing less.«

»You _will not_ Mark me.«

The smile that Voldemort gave to the teen was twisted with sadism, crimson eyes glowing with pleased hellfire at the knowledge that he had the boy cornered and with very little options left to him—except to submit willingly. »You may think that. But you would be wrong.«

It was the scorn that lined the Dark Lord's words, his tone of voice, that finally caused Harry to lose his temper: fear, rage, and soul-deep panic rushing through his veins as Harry brought up his want to point straight at the Dark Lord's heart. »_I am my own person!_« he roared, shrieked with fury, and the manor's foundations shuddered in abject terror at the sudden spike of magic that rippled through the house. »I will never be one of your fucking minions, _groveling_ for favors at your feet. I don't _fucking care_ about this 'bond' that you says lies between us—it doesn't matter! I disregard it, I don't accept it, and I will allow neither you nor Dumbledore to have control of my life! _Fuck you!_ Fuck you all! _I will be a Dark Lord, and I will be more powerful than any of you lot could ever possibly imagine!_«

Snarling, Voldemort's wand darted up and the wall behind Harry exploded outwards, rubble scattering across the lawn in a ruin of destruction, as he screamed, "_Expulso!_"

"_Incendio!_"

"_Crucio!_"

"___Protego Horribilis!_"

"_Sectumsempra!_"

Hearing the spell that Professor Snape had created fall from Voldemort's lips—knowing that his guardian's spell was being used against him, to _harm_ in an irreparable manner—Harry completely lost it: he allowed himself to fall into the ebb and flow of the duel, watching with eyes that saw too much, the structure of Voldemort's spells, how they connected back to his wand, and—more important—how they connected back to his _magical center_.

"_Fiendfyre_."

The Dark Lord's eyes widened in horror as fire, blood-red and as hot as the core of the sun, poured lazily from the tip of Harry's wand: larger and larger the flame became, circling the boy and obscuring him from view. Within the flames, chimeras and dragons gamboled, snakes slithered and twined their bodies lovingly around Harry's legs. And all the while, the Fiendfyre framed Harry's head like a halo.

"You fool. You _fool_!" Voldemort hissed. "_You cannot hope to control this!_"

"Are you afraid?" Harry asked, voice quiet as a Quetzalcoatl wrapped its feathered body around Harry's waist and torso, wings flaring out in an attempt to intimidate Voldemort, whilst the serpent tucked its head along the hollow of Harry's throat. In an idle caress, the Slytherin eased his fingertips over the serpent's head.

The inquiry struck home when Voldemort finally took the moment to put aside his feelings of self-preservation to realize that the Fiendfyre wasn't raging out of control, the way that it would have for many people—took the time to see that Harry had it within his control, and that the creatures that resided within the flames almost seemed to circle around him, brush against him, in an _adoring_ manner.

"You summoned it, fully aware that you could control the spell," Voldemort suddenly murmured, fury and fear gone as his eyes narrowed in an assessing way at Harry.

"Of course," the boy answered, glancing away from the Quetzalcoatl to give Voldemort his full attention. "It would have been foolish to do otherwise. I _never_ attempt a spell during a fight if I'm unsure as to whether or not I'd be able to control it." The Dark Lord's eyes narrowed further, and Harry smiled viciously at him. "You originally looked at me and saw only a teenager, foolish and pliable after being under Dumbledore's thumb for too long. A pawn, someone who could become the perfect minion for you—a lackey with no potential, no power, no particular use except to be moved around the board in the game that you're playing with Dumbledore. I _warned you_ that I was none of these things, but you were too arrogant to heed my words."

The Dark Lord was silent for several moments, but finally he asked, "What is it that you want, child?"

With a wave of his hand, Harry canceled the Fiendfyre spell, and the creatures that pressed up against him so lovingly slowly faded before disappearing completely. "What I _want_," Harry said, voice calm though his eyes still glittered with residual fury, "is to take myself out of the game between yourself and Dumbledore. I _want _to strike out on my own, an independent entity. I _want_ to be able to control my own life. I'm sure that you can understand all of those desires, though—because I'm _exactly_ like you: a predator, a Dark Lord, someone who intends to do great things with his life."

Voldemort mulled this over, lightly tapping his leg as he contemplated the different scenarios playing out in his mind, considering and weighing which scenario would suit his goals best. Finally breaking the silence, he finally asked, "And what could be done to keep you from striking out on your own? To entice you to join my side in the fight against Dumbledore?"

Harry's eyes hooded. "Will you swear a Wizard's Oath that you will never attempt to Mark or bind me against my will?"

"No."

The boy laughed at that, the sound derisive as he turned his face away from the Dark Lord, bruises in the shape of fingers stark and ugly against the smooth column of his throat. "Then we have nothing to discuss. You and Dumbledore can destroy each other for all I care."

»You are trying my patience, _boy_.«

»And you've insulted my pride, my power, and my intelligence,« Harry snapped back, verdigris eyes flaring in power and anger. »I'm pretty sure that that makes us on even ground now. So we're at a stalemate.«

Voldemort chuckled, the sound sinister. »Or I could kill you.«

Harry's smile was cherubic, which made it all the most twisted. »I suppose that you could try. But I'd make sure to bring you down with me.« It was only fair, he thought: an eternity in Hell together—poetic justice, in a way, and all that would have been needed to make it absolutely perfect was for Dumbledore to join their little soiree.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

It was all due to his Seeker skills, honed in Quidditch game after Quidditch game, that Harry was able to dive and dodge, making the Killing Curse miss him—but just barely. Done playing nicely with the Dark Lord, he snapped out a quick Cruciatus Curse so that the man would be forced to dodge out of the way, and when Voldemort was busy with that, Harry shouted out his next curse: "_Punire Malum!_"

It was shock at hearing his own spell—a spell that he was supposed to be the only one capable of doing—that caught the Dark Lord off-guard. _How—? How_ did _Harry Potter_ know a spell from his own, private arsenal? But no answers were forthcoming: and then the spell slammed into him, and Voldemort then had to put all of his attention at throwing it off.

While he was distracted, Harry darted past the Dark Lord and out of the door.

And he ran.

…but not before Voldemort was able to place a tracking hex along the bottom of his robes.


	19. Chapter 19

_Author's Note:_ And~ Once more, I pick up my pimpin' hat and cane and shoo you all to an author who goes by the name of _ExcentrykeMuse_. Her writing is lush and gorgeous and reads like a dreamy fairy-tale, meandering through twilight pathways. I sat down and read every single one of her stories and loved each one. If you'd like a story to start with, go and read _Ink Stained Pages_, which is her Tom Riddle and Harry Potter story—and _Fairy Dust_, her Artemis Fowl/Harry Potter story is…. guh. *O* Absolute love, love, _love _(and it's completely the fault of _Fairy Dust_ and _Fair Is Fowl, And Fowl Is Fair_ [by salty-sarah] that I'm considering writing an Artemis Fowl and Harry Potter crossover… *headdesks*). Anyway, I promise that you won't regret giving this author's HP stories a try. (I adore them all.) And, finally, because I've been asked this a lot still: Once again, Dumbledore does have Diary!Tom; no, he's not destroyed; and yes, he'll be coming back—just not yet (…and, frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if Voldemort would be tempted to off his own soul piece if he found out that he had Competition… *mutters*).

Anyway, semi-resolution to last chapter with this one. Kinda. Not really. But... close enough? Somewhat? (Eeeeh… it's Voldemort. What else did you expect?) Nineteen fulfills the need for a bridge between Eighteen and Twenty, so Twenty will pick up the pace once more~

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**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

Harry ran.

He ran from the room that he and Voldemort had dueled in, ran down corridors and hallways and past rooms that beckoned him sweetly with tempting, heady magical signatures. He ran past Death Eaters whose shouts he left behind soon enough, skidded around corners, and constantly kept himself on the move.

Voldemort's rage was palpable within the constraints of the manor—

And the teen knew that, should Voldemort catch him, it wouldn't be quite so easy to duck the _next_ Killing Curse. Luck would fail, and fail hard, in the face of the Dark Lord's wrath. He couldn't chance it—could only make his way through the manor house and towards where he could sense the doorway lay, as well as the outer wards beyond. If he managed to get past those very same wards… there was a real chance that Harry might be able to Apparate away and head back towards Hogwarts.

It didn't matter that he didn't yet know how to Apparate.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

As the magic within the old house spiked suddenly, Harry abruptly froze and waited for the explosion of power that would come in the wave of the Dark Lord's fury—but it was as he prepared himself that a tiny piece of magic finally managed to catch the Slytherin's attention; head tilted to the side, he felt… stretched out… frowned in thought as something almost insignificantly _small _tugged at the corner of his consciousness. It was close to him, incredibly so, and it had the same flavor as Voldemort's magic—and it came from _below_.

Realization dawned—too late, too late—when Harry finally caught sight of the tracking spell that had attached itself to the hem of his robes. Heartbeat picking up, suddenly pounding harshly enough to fill his ears with the frantic tones, the teen breathed out an inaudible "Oh, _fuck_." as he began to immediately shrug out of his robes. The magic of the Dark Lord peaked—

And Harry found himself slammed against the wall opposite of where he had been standing, Voldemort's pale fingers wrapped securely around the green-eyed boy's throat as the Dark Lord easily dangled the Slytherin off of the floor. Harry's legs kicked uselessly (and, this time, Voldemort angled his body so that the teen couldn't lash out with another knee to the groin as he had before) and gasped for breath that was becoming increasingly difficult to get.

There were no words between the two:

None were needed anymore.

Voldemort's free hand clamped down possessively around Harry's left forearm, hold tight enough to bruise—_would_ bruise, dark finger-shaped wounds marring the Potter heir's otherwise smooth skin. The Dark Lord's eyes blazed with inhuman rage at being denied: no one had denied him for years, not since Dumbledore had turned him away from the DADA professorship the last and final time. Even then, Voldemort had made sure to curse the job out of spite. But this… this scrap of a _boy_, who thought himself of becoming a _Dark Lord_, this child not only _spurned_ him—but then managed to use one of Voldemort's _own spells_ against him? It was an insult that was not to be borne: and it was an insult that Voldemort would rectify here and now.

"_Morsmo_—"

"_NO!_"

The denial was shrieked by a panic-stricken boy when Harry knew, _knew_ and had no doubt, that he had finally been completely and utterly trapped, trapped in a way that he hadn't been since he had left the Dursleys: he would be shackled, chained, regulated to nothing more than a slave to do one's bidding. A servant, less than a person. The persona that he had spent so long crafting for himself—confident, intelligent, independent, _strong_—the persona would weaken and eventually crumble, falling apart at the seams until there was nothing left but an empty shell with verdant-bright eyes. Property without a will: nothing more, nothing less.

It was the panic, the terror, that fueled Harry's magic; it flared to life around his body as he screamed, bright as a supernova, as fiery as the inner core of the sun. It shoved, _hard_, and expanded the air around the boy's body and forced Voldemort to release his hold upon the young Slytherin's throat as the Dark Lord was tossed into the air and spun haphazardly before landing in an undignified heap.

"_No!_ Nono_nono_nono_nonono_," Harry chanted over and over again, a denial that sprang from his very soul. And yet… even through the white-hot fury, Voldemort couldn't help but note just how very vulnerable the boy looked as he huddled in on himself in the corner at the end of the corridor, crouching down as low as he could go, obviously protective of his vulnerable points and clutching an arm desperately to his chest.

It was not, surprisingly enough, Harry's left arm.

The entirety of the boy's face was rubicund, verdigris eyes sparkling and wild, wand held possessively in his left hand—though the weapon was not pointed at anything in particular. It was… odd. An anomaly, and Voldemort frowned slightly as he tried to put aside his pure, unadulterated rage that he felt towards this Dark child. It did not work completely, but it was enough: the boy had lashed out as a feral animal would when finally cornered with no hope of escape.

Voldemort's crimson eyes narrowed, the glow within them slowly becoming a bit more muted, less uncontrollable—restrained, as he tried to be, but was constantly shown otherwise whenever he was around this young snake-tongued Slytherin.

»_Be silent_,« the Dark Lord snapped, and Harry's teeth abruptly clicked shut in complete and total surprise at the tone that the older man had adopted. Awareness slowly crept back into his eyes and, realizing the image that he must make, Harry suddenly flushed—but his wand no longer trembled and it was now aimed directly at Voldemort's heart. Ignoring the last—for the time being, though Harry would soon enough learn what would happen for being impertinent—the Dark Lord began to make his way closer, dark robes billowing about him. »Show me your arm. Your right one.«

Harry stilled, though his muscles slightly quivered as he debated between flight and fight: the only choices that he would allow for himself since there was no way that showing Voldemort his arm was an acceptable third option. »No.«

Voldemort's answering smile was horribly cruel, and his reply was impossibly simplistic. »You will show me your arm—immediately and done willingly—or I shall call those you care about to me one by one and slaughter them before your eyes for the defiance that you have demonstrated thus far. First I will kill Lucius. Then Severus. Lucius' son. Narcissa. And then I shall end with your Mudblood friend. Then, once I have seen what it is that you hide, you will tell me where you learned of _Punire Malum_. I will know if you lie to me, child. And if you do? I shall kill those close to you and force you to watch.«

The boy shivered and glanced away, back to weighing his options.

They were few and far between.

…what was the most insulting, however, was the inner knowledge that it didn't matter just how angry he currently (still) was at Lucius and Draco: Harry cared about them, and the Dark Lord knew this—and had no qualms in threatening them to gain what he wanted. And it was petty to think so, Harry knew, but he wished that there was someone that the _Dark Lord_ cared about so that Harry might threaten him in turn.

Pitiable, in a way, that Voldemort was indestructible in this regards.

Harry kept his gaze averted but, slowly, offered up his arm. Worry niggled at the back of his mind, but… there was nothing for Voldemort to truly see. The flesh was smooth, the sleeves of his school shirt rolled up to his elbows. The Dark Lord frowned at that and finally glanced up to meet Harry's green-eyed gaze.

"I'm not so foolish as what you might think—or hope to believe otherwise," the Dark Lord sneered and flicked his wand over the teen's forearm. He had sensed the magic thrumming over the skin by using his own wand as a conduit, a dowsing tool that reached out and "scented" for traps and disguises, small cover-ups that he was beginning to learn to expect from the boy.

The layers of magic peeled away, the glamour was forced to end, and the letters _D.D._ appeared at the tender, sensitive skin of Harry's inner wrist. The boy paled at seeing them for the first time since he was eleven—and began to feel nauseous as he sensed the other glamours covering his body being ripped away by the force of Voldemort's insistent tugging. He had only dropped one glamour—_willingly_—in years, and that was to show Dumbledore. Now, all of the glamours were disappearing one by one and, soon enough, the damage done by the Dursleys would be bared for all to see until he was given the chance to redo the layers upon layers of magic. It would take hours.

He attempted to dart past Voldemort.

Unfortunately, however, the Dark Lord had prepared himself for that particular reaction. The man's hand snapped forward, fingers digging firmly in the boy's clothes to drag him towards the corner once more. He slammed Harry against the wall, and the boy's breath whooshed out in one complete sound, and it wasn't much longer before the Dark Lord had Harry's hands pinned up above his head and was tugging up his shirt to reveal his back.

The wizard knew, however, what he would find.

And he did.

There were scars that criss-crossed Harry's back, scars that had been all too familiar on Voldemort's own first body; he, too, had bared this badge of shame, this sign of weakness, of powerlessness. The scars of old welts, the sharp edge of a belt buckle that hadn't originally been planned to be used—but sadistic contentment that damage had been caused nonetheless. Scars from cuts—perhaps from jagged nails or glass or mirror shards, scars that ran rampant over Harry's shoulder blades in a mockery of the feathered down of wings. So many scars; so much pain. So much obvious enjoyment _of_ that pain.

_Homo sapiens_ could, truly, be the cruelest species ever cursed to roam Earth.

Voldemort spent a long time looking over the scars, analyzing the wounds that had built up over years upon years; he contemplated the damage, the agony, the humiliation, and the shame that had been dealt upon this extraordinary wizarding child—a child who he shared a bond with, one that he now realized ran much, much deeper than he had originally thought.

Their lives, their souls, paralleled, mirrored one another's. Reflections.

»I apologize,« he finally said, words stiff and tasting like ash in his mouth. »I did not know.« The scar that he hated the most, however, was the one that blazed like a cattle brand upon Harry's wrist—a claim of ownership that only _he_, the Dark Lord, should have been allowed to make.

»It would not have mattered, even if you had,« Harry replied, tone bitter—though he never glanced away from the Dark Lord's roiling, holly-berry tinted eyes. They both knew, too, that Harry's words were the truth.

Instead of addressing that particular accusation—and what could he say since it _was_ true?—Voldemort instead reached out and wrapped his fingers possessively around Harry's wrist, bringing the limb up and placing the mark in full view to force the teen to acknowledge it. »_Who?_«

»It doesn't matter. The deaths are already forfeit to me,« Harry hissed angrily as his magic suddenly spiked in relation to his anger; for so long, the excess had remained tethered, corded off and—for the most part—inaccessible. But the recent forays into otherwise forbidden magic had weakened the wall, the collar, and the adrenaline from his terror had destroyed what was left of the corral. It would take some getting used to and he would have to relearn how to work with a great deal of his magic—but Harry was ready to accept it.

He stepped away from Voldemort and made to leave the Dark Lord's immediate vicinity, hoping that the conversation was done and over with now that the Dark Lord knew of his past abuse. Perhaps he would ignore it, just as Dumbledore had deigned to do—and, though Harry knew that it was only wishful thinking, _perhaps_ Voldemort would just let him go.

That, however, was not going to happen any time soon. The wizard's hand shot out once more, maybe (with any luck) for the last time this time, and Voldemort's fingers wrapped tight around the boy's upper arm; Voldemort drew Harry against his body, looming threateningly, as his gaze glittered with thinly-veiled warning. "Ah, ah, ah. Not so fast, child. There is still one last thing to address: Your knowledge of _Punire Malum_."

Harry's eyes hooded. "I learned the spell from my tutor."

The Dark Lord's fingers tightened warningly.

"I did," came the answer in reply to the warning, words cool and nonchalant despite the perilous position that Harry knew he found himself in currently. "You said that you would know if I was telling a lying, so you should know by now that the words _are _the truth."

"…ah, but we both know that that's not the _whole_ truth, now is it? What is the tutor's _name_?"

Harry remained stubbornly silent with flaring, bottle-green eyes staring mutinously up at the Dark Lord, a muscle in the line of his jaw ticking dangerously as he refrained from answering. The fingers continued to tighten, warning the teen of the thin ice that he was treading upon, but Harry continued to ignore it. "The _name_, boy," Voldemort hissed when the silent dragged on too long. "The _name_, or I shall call Severus now and disembowel him, making sure to imprint the image into your memories for all eternity—I'll make sure that your very _soul_ carries the memory of his screams."

"…Tom. His name is _Tom_."

Voldemort released Harry, his hold upon the boy freeing him instantly as the Dark wizard turned on his heel and began to make his way towards the grand ballroom, his makeshift throne room, moving with the grace of a hunting predator. Harry watched him from beneath his lashes, lips pursed in thought; the Dark Lord said nothing about whether or not he expected Harry to stay, but… the pulsing magic around the handsome wizard was vicious, toxic in its sadism. Despite how he was learning to manipulate magic… not even Harry wanted that particular batch to touch him. It was too filled with malice and cruel intent.

It wasn't long before he was slipping past the doors of the throne room with a shivering, pale Lucius Malfoy trailing behind him, the hems of Voldemort's robes curling around, licking teasingly about Lucius' legs—taunting the blonde wizard further. Increasing the fear of the unknown—not knowing what it was that he had done, so soon after bringing Harry here, that must have angered the Dark Lord.

It wasn't much longer after _that_ that his screams echoed through the manor.

"It is a dangerous scheme, when one decides to strike up a match, a twisted type of merrymaking with a Dark Lord," a voice whispered against the shell of Harry's ear suddenly, disrupting the anguished screams that Lucius was making, cries that could still be heard through the thick wood of the throne room's door. Harry tensed at the words, at the fact that he had been distracted enough to let someone sneak up behind him. Slowly, the teen looked over his shoulder to meet the amethyst gaze of Evan Rosier. Harry returned his stare, otherwise silent. Slowly, the Inner Circle Death Eater began to smile, though it wasn't a particularly kind expression. Then, after a moment or two, a laugh. "Are you sure that you're ready to play this particular game, Potter?"

Harry's gaze darkened. "It's not a game. It's my _life_."

Evan smirked. "It _is_ a type of game when you decide to gamble with it. The Dark Lord plays for keeps, and he always plays to win. And _when_ you lose that game, your oh-so precious life become forfeit—just as all of ours are."

"Who says that I'm going to lose?" Harry asked, voice nothing more than a whisper.

Evan Rosier watched the Boy-Who-Lived with enigmatic, blank eyes; he weighed, he assessed, his gaze judged. Finally:

"Bona fortuna," Evan said in answer, chuckling quietly as he slightly inclined his head at the boy who had fallen so far, so fast, and yet still managed enough bravery—enough foolhardedness?—to pick up the gauntlet that had been tossed at his feet.

"I don't need Fortune. And I don't need luck."


	20. Chapter 20

_Author's Note: _Before I begin with the actual story, I just wanted to take the time to apologize for how long it took to get chapter twenty out. There's been a lot of stuff going on for me in my life and a lot of it has been rather hard. :\ I started my HP stories when things started going belly up, and it's been difficult coming back to them because of that. However, I do think that things have calmed down enough for me to feel comfortable enough to write for this fandom, so… Cross your fingers, yeah? I also wanted to say _thank you so incredibly much_ to those who haven't lost faith in getting an update—telling me that they knew that I would one day come back—as well as those of you who have sent me PMs and left reviews, hoping that everything is all right with me. It really meant a lot, getting so many messages well-wishers. Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ for caring. Finally, many kisses to a certain little sister who never gave up in reminding me to update~ *kiss kiss noms!*  
Also, short-ish chapter—I know, I know—but I'm hoping to get back into the swing of things (and, if that happens, regular updates should start coming soon). So, once again… cross your fingers for me?

* * *

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

The threads of the half-visible web shimmered eerily in the light that came down from the nearly full moon. The strands twined around one another, structure horribly complex—endlessly twisted with each other, knotted and layered and beautifully chaotic despite it all.

Harry frowned thoughtfully at one particular thread, reaching out with slim fingers to grasp it carefully, shifting it and tangling it with countless others before moving his attention to yet another wisp of spider silk.

In the bed behind him, the teen's "uncle" took another muted, pain-filled breath.

The Dark Lord was an unforgiving leader, and he had not been pleased—not at all—at hearing that "Tom" had been Harry's tutor. He had known just who to blame for that particular fact, as well as why the diary was no longer in a safe place once the knowledge that Dumbledore had taken the journal from Harry had been ripped from the blonde's mind, and… well, Voldemort couldn't punish the elderly man for that audacious act, but Lucius was readily available and accessible enough for the role of whipping boy.

Harry had lost count as to how many hissed "_Crucio!_"s he had heard.

And Lucius had not been able to stop screaming when Rosier had finally stepped around Harry after their little chat had finished, slipping away into Voldemort's throne room to play the role that he had happily caught for himself. A role that he played very well, for it hadn't been long after that Lucius began to quietly beg for mercy, voice hoarse and desperate—so much pain, the blonde aristocrat must have been in, to humble himself, his pride, so drastically.

The punishment session _had_ ended then, finally—but not because of Lucius' begging.

"You will stop. Now," Harry had said. The command was stated simply, the teen's voice barely more than a low murmur. But the air within the room had begun to bend and wave with heat, and the magic within the enclosed space spiked dangerously each time that the Malfoy patriarch gasped for breath.

Evan Rosier's lips curled slowly into a pleased, contented smile and those bright, vibrant eyes of his glittered in delight at the gauntlet that Harry, in turn, had tossed at Voldemort's feet. "But the Dark Lord isn't done _playing_ yet, Potter. You should learn to wait your turn."

Harry said nothing in return: instead, he continued to stare at the Dark Lord and his torturer, verdant gaze implacable and unyielding from the stand that he had just taken. _No more, no more, no more; touch him once again and I shall have my pound of flesh._

Voldemort's eyes sparked in turn, but the Dark child disregarded that new surge of fury considering the fact that he finally got what he wanted in the first place: the Dark Lord turned his tender mercies away from Lucius, gesturing at Rosier for the violet-eyed man to follow after. »This is not finished, child,« the crimson-eyed wizard hissed in dire warning, gaze catching Harry's one final time before slipping through one of the many doors within his throne room.

»It is enough. And that's all that matters to me,« the raven-haired boy murmured to the mostly empty room, his words and Lucius' harsh pants for breath the only sounds that were to be heard. Harry shook his head just moments after he spoke, jarring himself from the train of thoughts that he was starting to meander down, and the teen instead flicked his wand towards his uncle. Casting the spell silently, Harry lifted Lucius and turned on his heel to head back to the room that he had awoken in earlier.

A healing potion that one of the house elves had brought had soothed the blonde lord's pain (though couldn't take it all away), had calmed his breathing as much as it was possible and, eventually, coaxed him into a light sleep. Hours later and Lucius was still resting while Harry watched over his "uncle."

As the verdant-eyed teen reached out and delicately wrapped one of the silky strands around his finger, contemplating the web as a whole while considering where he wanted to thread this new strand, a rich-as-chocolate chuckle slipped through the shadows within the room, claw-tipped fingers teasingly brushing over the elegant arch of the teen's cheekbone.

"I thought that you couldn't come here unless I summoned you through the ritual," Harry commented lightly, unfazed, and carefully attached the spider silk's end to the web's ebon-wood frame.

"If you wanted a favor from me and were willing to pay the price, then yes, you would have to use the ritual to bring me to this particular plane," the voice answered easily enough, hellfire-bright eyes glinting with amusement just behind Harry's shoulder. "But the rules change when it is _I_ who wishes to come and visit with _you_, Young Master."

"Hn," came the answer from the still-distracted teen. "The text never mentioned that."

The demon chuckled once again, delicately pointed canines gleaming in the moonlight that drifted in from the open bedroom windows. "Of course it didn't. What fun would there be if it _had_?"

Harry snorted at that particular reply, not giving any other response despite the danger inherit in ignoring the demon in the room while he went about with his web-crafting. Knowing that this level of comfort with a creature that most others would otherwise be frantically trying to contain was all _Harry_ and that the teen could continue to pretty much ignore him until he was finished with his latest project, the creature finally stepped completely into the bedroom.

Heeled boots quietly _click-clacked_ over the marble of the flooring, every step echoing eerily in the darker than norm room. Idly settling down behind the teenage wizard, the demon draped its arms over the boy's shoulders, wrapping possessively over Harry's collarbone, and leaned in so that a too-warm chest pressed snugly against the green-eyed boy's skinny back. Surprisingly quiet considering how often the demon enjoyed baiting others, blood-tinted mahogany eyes watched as Harry continued to weave the various strands of the web into a more complex pattern.

The boy's fingers were deft, pale as moonstone as the time slowly eased further and further into the witching hours. However, even as the night progressed, Harry's movements never faltered, never stuttered, never once hesitated as the web grew, layer by layer.

"How unusual," the demon eventually commented as the clock within the bedroom tolled three a.m. and Harry idly nicked his finger and painted his blood over seven particular strands within the construct. "And here I had believed that your kind only used Arithmancy and Runes for this sort of thing."

"Only using Arithmancy and Runes? How _boring_," Harry murmured back absently, eyes amused as he glanced at his companion from the corner of his bright green gaze. The dryness of the response earned a quick flicker of a pleased smile and an equally brief nip to the edge of Harry's jawline—hard enough to leave behind a bruise, but not hard enough to draw blood.

"Little spider, spinning away at his web," the demon scolded with a light laugh, and the arms tightened possessively around Harry's slight frame for a moment before retreating—just the briefest shift away, never far—when the wizard's magic spiked in response. "Be careful not to become tangled in the very same strands that you wove, Young Master."

"I always am, _Malphas_," Harry whispered quietly in answer as he looked over his creation with surprisingly blank eyes. No matter how naturally bright their color might have been, there was nothing—nobody home—within that verdant gaze as the teenage wizard assessed his night's work.

Another muted chuckle was the demon's response, and Harry felt the creature settle closer for a moment before retreating completely as the figure on the bed stirred and finally woke to full consciousness for the first time in hours.

Glancing up as Lucius' lashes lifted so that the man could stare dazedly up at the ceiling and as a soft, heartfelt groan of pain leaving the blonde's pale lips, Harry easily shrunk the wooden frame and the web within, tucking it away out of sight before the elder wizard realized that he wasn't alone within the room. When his uncle _did_ eventually turn his head to the side to access where in the Dark Lord's home he currently was placed, Lucius was surprised into a quick blink at catching sight of Harry.

"Hello, uncle. Welcome back to the land of the living," the teen greeted the Malfoy lord dryly, standing from his seated position on the floor; Harry lightly dusted off his clothing, moving easily despite the hours of staying in a cramped position, and settled himself instead in an armchair not too far from Lucius' bed. Harry only returned his attention to the elder wizard when he was finally comfortable, head lifting and gaze pining Lucius to the sheets as the teen gave the other a crocodile's smile. "Now, I think that it's past time that you and I have a little _talk_."


End file.
